


Still Waters

by Nepthys



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-06 02:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepthys/pseuds/Nepthys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1973, but not quite as we know it...<br/>Gene Hunt, ex-copper turned private detective, becomes entangled in a missing person case which will test him to the limits. Noir-style detective!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The main thing about dying isn't the fear or the pain (though God knows I was in agony). And it isn't the noise (although there were sirens and shouting and a pounding which I had a sneaking suspicion was inside my own head). It isn't even your life flashing in front of your eyes (frankly, I hadn't enjoyed it that much the first time round so I didn't fancy an action replay).

No.

No, the main thing I felt, as I lay there in a warm, fast-spreading pool of my own blood, was _damned_ annoyed.

 

***

_12 days earlier_

 

If I'd known the trouble Sam Tyler would bring in his wake, I never would have got out of bed that Tuesday morning.

It was one of those mornings when you wished you could stay asleep. When your body felt like you'd gone ten rounds with John Conteh the night before, and everything was louder and brighter than it had any need to be.

Unfortunately, most of my mornings started this way.

"Guv? Come on, it's after nine."

Annie's voice, soft and gentle. I heard her sigh.

"Look, you can pretend you're still asleep if you want to, but you're not fooling anyone."

I cracked open an eye. "How about if I start snoring?"

Annie placed a steaming mug on my bedside table and stepped back, folding her arms. "You've got a client waiting downstairs."

"I know; I heard them knocking on the door."

Sitting up, I fumbled at the table, pushing aside an empty scotch bottle and ignoring the mug in favour of a packet of fags. I shook one out, lit it and inhaled gratefully, ignoring Annie's look of disapproval.

"He's been waiting nearly half an hour."

"Serves him right for turning up at the crack of dawn." I squinted up at Annie. "What's he look like?"

"Like he can pay," she snapped back. "Look, I may just be the skivvy who answers your phone and makes your tea but I'm also your bookkeeper and I'm telling you that you need this job. So get out of bed and get to it!"

She looked at me, and despite her best efforts to look fierce I could tell by the way she was biting her lip that she thought she might have overstepped the mark this time. And she had, but she was also right, and I knew it.

I exhaled, coils of smoke hanging in the still air between us. "Tell him I'll be down in a few minutes."

***

 

The Private Investigation business isn't for just anyone. It takes hard work, dogged persistence, and a certain amount of what my mam would have called gumption. All of which I've got in spades, what with being an ex-copper. It also requires quick wits and an instinctive nose for trouble.

Which probably explains the _ex-_ part of the ex-copper label.

I splashed some water over my face and ran my fingers through my hair. The face looking back at me in the mirror twisted into a sneer so I looked elsewhere while I finished in the bathroom.

The tea Annie had left me was hot and sweet - no alcohol in it (that would have been too much to ask for), but plenty of sugar, bless her. Yesterday's clothes lay draped across a chair and I gave them a quick sniff: they would do, apart from the shirt which had some unexplained bloodstains on it. Chucking it into a corner, I picked another one off the floor. It passed muster, so I pulled it on. Dressed and ready to face the world, I headed out of my flat and downstairs to the office.

At the bottom of the stairs there's the front door to the street, which was standing open as it usually is in office hours, and the door which leads to the outer office. The bell above the door rang as I pushed it open and went in, seeing Annie behind her desk and a youngish man sitting in one of the visitors' chairs. He stood up as I entered and held out his hand.

I looked at it suspiciously. Clean, short nails, no calluses. And just the hint of a tremor. I nodded towards the inner office.

"You'd better come in, then."

He lowered his hand and gave a wordless nod, then followed me through the door to my office.

Annie came in and fussed about with tea and coffee. She must have felt sorry for him - I'd seen the empty cup sitting next to him in the waiting room, so he'd had one already. Oh, and a plate of Garibaldis. Yep, she definitely liked this one.

The distraction gave me a chance to give him the once over, realising as I did so that the cheeky bugger was doing the same to me.

A bit shorter than me with a slim build, dark hair cut strangely short, battered black leather jacket and no tie with his patterned shirt, close-fitting flares leading down to brown boots with Cuban heels. All of it casually fashionable, yet incongruously clean and neat. And finished off with brown eyes with the sort of look in them that women fall for every time.

I cleared my throat. "So, Mr…?"

"Tyler. Sam Tyler."

His voice was low, and the accent seemed local but it was soft, muted.

"And you saw the sign over the door so you know I'm Gene Hunt. What can I do for you on this bright and sunny morning?"

"You can help me find out who I am."

I blinked at him. "That shouldn't be too hard seeing as how you've just told me. You're Sam Tyler."

His expression twisted into a grimace and he looked away. "That's what it says on my driving licence," he said in a low voice. He took a deep breath.

"A month ago I was found unconscious, apparently having been knocked over by a car--"

I could hear the faint rattle of his cup against its saucer.

"--and although I'm now fine physically, I've lost my memory."

He put the cup and saucer down on the desk and looked up at me, his expression haunted.

"Please, Mr. Hunt. I need to know who I am."

***

I've done my fair share of missing person investigations, both on the force and off, but I've never had to look for someone who had lost himself.

Mr. Tyler told me everything he knew, which didn't take very long. After three weeks in hospital – just bruises and sprains, but the doctors were worried about his head – they eventually discharged him, saying his memory might return in time.

And so it might, but there were no signs of it so far.

Fortunately for him, he'd had his driving licence on him, along with a bit of loose change and a front door key, so he knew his own address. It was a nondescript flat in a nondescript street, and he was turning the key in the lock as he spoke.

"…the police never found the driver of the car, and they said that no-one of my name had been reported missing, so there was nothing more they could do."

He pushed the door open and motioned for me to enter. "Then DI Carling suggested I should come to see you."

I gave a nod and stepped past him into the front room of his flat.

Tidy. Spartan, even. A low pile of books on the shelves, a TV in the corner, and a small sofa angled towards it. Tyler was right by my shoulder, looking around as if he was seeing it all for the first time.

"It's rented. Apparently I moved in about three months ago. Paid a deposit and a month's rent in advance." He gave a frustrated huff, running a hand through his hair. "But I don't recognise anything. None of it."

He followed me as I went over to peer at the books. They were all from the library, all medical texts about head injuries and memory loss. I looked over at him and for a moment he looked back, desperate and hopeful and pained all at the same time. Then he gave a shrug and glanced away.

Stepping away from him, I headed towards the inner doors. One led into a small but spotlessly clean bathroom, and another into an equally small and clean kitchen. I made a bit of a show of looking in the cupboards. Not that I expected to find anything out of the ordinary, but I poked about the fridge and glanced in the oven, anyway. I keep a gun in mine but that's fairly unusual, not to mention illegal. (The gun, that is. Last time I checked there weren't any laws about what you can and can't keep in an oven.)

Moving on into the bedroom I had to remind myself that he was a paying client and so I couldn't just turf all the stuff out of his drawers and cupboards, which was a shame as I don't get to do that much these days. Not that there was much to turf, just a few changes of underwear, some shirts and a couple of pairs of trousers hanging neatly in the wardrobe. I went through all the pockets, but came up empty.

"I've already done that, you know."

Tyler had followed me in and was sitting on the bed watching me.

"Checked behind pictures, under the mattress…" he gave a dry, humourless chuckle, "…even looked for anything sewn into the lining of my clothes."

I nodded but continued to search anyway. He was paying me, after all, so it was best to make a show of being thorough.

"This was all I found."

I froze, then turned to look at him. Why is it punters always leave the important things till last?

He had a few items spread out on the bed:

A grimy hanky.  
A matchbook.  
An odd small key.  
A small thin black notebook with worn edges.  
A large wad of banknotes, high denomination.

I pressed my lips together, mentally calculating.

His mouth twisted in a humourless smile. "So you see, I may not know who I am, but I know I can pay you."

***

 

I sat on his sofa, turning the bundle of money over in my hands.

"There must be a few hundred here."

"Twelve thousand, four hundred and sixty, actually." Tyler's voice came from the kitchen. "I found it in a plastic bag in the toilet cistern."

I raised an eyebrow: he'd been more thorough than me.

The notebook had just a few blank pages in it; the rest had been torn out. I put it to one side and picked up the matchbook. It bore the name of a club which looked vaguely familiar so I was certain it was local, although not one of the more popular ones. I put it down as Tyler handed me a steaming mug of coffee.

"And you don't remember anything else?"

He shook his head.

"Nothing. So I've spent the last week hanging around here reading, hoping that someone will knock on the door or I'll get something in the post that will tell me who I am."

Tyler sat down next to me with a sigh, and we drank in silence. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his forearms suggesting a lean, sinewy strength.

I eyed the stash of banknotes. "What about work? I mean, that money came from somewhere."

A worried frown creased his forehead. "I've no idea. But I've been thinking that if I just moved here recently, I might not have got around to opening up a bank account, and I suppose the cistern is a good a place as any to hide it. And no-one has called round to ask why I'm not at work, so maybe I haven't got a job yet."

I nodded slowly. "Maybe." I could hear the note of hope in his voice and I didn't have the heart to drown it out completely, but he and I both knew he was clutching at straws. You don't hide that amount of loot in your loo just because you haven't had the chance to pop to the bank. I sighed, knowing I was going to hate myself.

"Look, are you really sure you _want_ to get to the bottom of this?"

Tyler seemed to freeze in place beside me. He had the money to pay me and God knows I needed it, but I took a deep breath and ploughed on regardless.

"As things stand, you've got a clean slate. No-one is looking for you and you've got a nice tidy sum to set yourself up somewhere, no questions asked. Have you thought that you might be better off not knowing?"

Tyler looked up at me and I hated myself even more. His eyes reflected worry and doubt, but his voice when he spoke was rock-solid.

"I want to know the truth."

 

***

 

The truth, as someone once said, is rarely what it's cracked up to be. But Tyler was paying for my time, so after arranging to meet him the following day I left him at his flat and headed back to the office where I gave Ray Carling a call.

Ray had been my DI up until my sudden and involuntary departure from the force just over three years ago. The corruption charges had eventually been dropped, but not in time to save my job or my pension, or my picture from being front-page news thanks to Jackie bloody Queen. Disgrace had followed, with divorce hot on its heels.

A lot of my old friends and comrades had been unable to look me in the eye afterwards but Ray had stayed in touch. I don't know whether Ray really thought I was innocent, or just that I had been unlucky to be the one to get caught. It didn't really matter either way. Ray was a good man, and a good mate, and I trusted him.

Well, as much as I trust anyone.

We arranged to meet later that night in the _One Bell_, and I went back to work, spending the rest of the day dropping off some surveillance photos I'd taken and deciding how to tell old man Palmer exactly how his son was spending his inheritance.

It was the tail end of the day, phone calls made and papers filed, and Annie offered to pop round the corner to Noreen's café and pick up an egg buttie for me before she went home. I agreed, partly because I was a bit peckish but mostly because I knew it would keep Annie happy (God knows why she worries about me not eating properly – it's not like I'm going to fade away from starvation anytime soon).

I fished a fresh bottle of scotch out of my desk drawer and took a healthy swig: no harm in warming up before heading to the pub. I slouched down in my chair and propped my feet up on my desk.

Sometimes I hate this job. Especially the surveillance work. Long periods of boredom punctuated with bursts of activity. It's not the spying itself that's the problem – it's all a bit girly, but there's nothing wrong with having a healthy sense of curiosity. And sometimes you get to tackle something a bit more challenging; something requiring thought and cunning, something you can really sink your teeth into.

No, I hate what you find out about people; hate having to dash clients' hopes, seeing the anger and pain in their eyes when I have to confirm their worst suspicions.

Or take someone like Tyler. He was obviously smart - a bit odd, perhaps, but seemed basically decent – who knows what I might uncover about him to shatter his illusions.

But it's a living, and let's face it, what the hell else would I do?

***

 

When I heard the bell above the front door ring I assumed it must be Annie returning, so when I glanced up I wasn't expecting to find myself looking down the business end of a double-barrelled shotgun.

The bloke behind it was familiar enough – I'd watched his ugly mug for many a long hour behind a telephoto lens - but this was the first time I'd seen him up close and personal, and it wasn't much of a view.

"Mr. Luckhurst." I said calmly. "What brings you in here?"

"You bloody bastard!" He stepped further into my office and I could see he was white-lipped and almost shaking with rage, the tremor of his body visible beneath the tailored cut of his expensive suit.

I tried to maintain eye contact as I slowly lowered my feet, keeping my hands flat on my desk so as not to alarm him. In the movies the good guys always have a gun to hand – either in a nearby drawer or taped under the desktop or something – but I didn't think he'd obligingly hang around while I nipped upstairs and rummaged around in my oven. Lucky I had my natural charm to fall back on.

"You seem a bit upset," I pointed out, probably unnecessarily.

"Damn right I'm upset!" He bellowed, the spittle flying from his lips and spotting his expensive silk tie.

"Why don't you tell me what all this-"

"Shut up and get on your feet!" He gestured with the gun and I risked a glance at his trigger-finger to assess the chances of him shooting me accidentally – quite high, I reckoned.

"Okay, okay." I got to my feet slowly, hands raised. This wasn't good. This sort of thing was the drawback of working without a partner – no back-up. And although I know we all have to meet our Maker one day, I wasn't in a hurry for it to be today. Besides, I didn't want Annie's last sight of me to be a gory mess redecorating the walls of my office.

Luckhurst had his back to the door and was motioning me to step around the desk in front of him.

"Get round here and prepare to die like a man, you bloody swine!"

I complied as slowly as I could, my mind racing. Presumably he'd waited until Annie left before barging in, thinking that she'd gone for the evening. A quick glance at the wall clock told me Annie would be back any second – well, unless she'd got stuck in conversation with Noreen or someone else she knew, in which case she might be ages - but I shoved that thought away. All I had to do was keep him talking.

"But – surely you're not going to kill me without telling me why?" I asked, in a reasonable tone.

"You know very well why, you filthy immoral scum!"

That was a bit rich, seeing as I'd caught him on camera cheating on his wife with no less than three different women, at least two of whom had been young enough to be his daughter.

"Just doing what I'm paid for. You're the one who had the affair in the first place – can't blame your wife." I tried to sound vaguely regretful about it all, but quite frankly the slimy bastard deserved whatever his wife dished out to him.

"Oh, so that makes it fine for you to sleep with her, then, does it?" His voice was lower but his hand seemed to be shaking more, which wasn't a good development.

"Ah. Well, I can explain that…"

And that was the moment that the bell sounded Annie's return.

Luckhurst's head whipped round, his body turning slightly, and the barrels of the gun twitched to one side with his movement. I'd been ready for it and I dived for him, grabbing the gun with both hands and twisting it viciously from his grip before he could react. I brought the stock up to meet his jaw with a satisfying crack – not enough to break it, but enough to send him reeling to the floor at Annie's feet. Her hand flew up to her mouth in shock and she stepped smartly to one side to avoid Luckhurst as he rolled around moaning.

"Firstly," I said, breaking open the breech and dropping out the two cartridges, "I _haven't_ shagged your bloody wife." Not that she hadn't offered, but her type is always bad news. I stashed the cartridges in my pocket and snapped the breech shut as Luckhurst staggered to his feet, cradling his jaw in his hands. "And second, if you're so worried about morals then stop shagging other birds and take up letter-writing to Mary bleedin' Whitehouse instead!"

I took a couple of menacing steps towards him and he backed away, Annie shifting aside to let him reverse out of the door.

"And finally – I could go to the coppers about this but I'm not going to because if I ever, _ever_ see hide or hair of you again, I'll have much more fun ramming this up your jacksie and letting you have both barrels!"

As I brandished the gun Luckhurst turned tail and fled, still clutching his jaw, the bell ringing merrily as the door swung shut behind him. Annie was staring at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, sandwich bag lying dropped and forgotten on the floor.

I sniffed, putting the gun down on my desk and straightening my tie. "D'you know, I think we'll close early today."

 

***

 

Ray was already there when I got to the _One Bell_, sitting in an alcove near the back. We meet up for drinks every week or so, but always somewhere that isn't a regular coppers' boozer as it might not be healthy for Ray's career for him to be seen too frequently with me.

Pints in hand, I slid into the seat next to him. It's always easy, this friendship. Even at the worst of it I could trust Ray not to blather on or ask a load of questions I didn't want to answer. He was always happy with a chat about the footie, and that's how I liked it. So we started on that, and it was a couple of pints later before I got round to asking him about my Mysterious Missing Memory Man.

"Yeah. It's a bit of an odd case, that one." Ray wiped the beer froth off his moustache before continuing. "He was found unconscious on a bit of waste ground right next to the canal towpath. Bloke out walking his dog early morning found him, and Tyler's bloody lucky he did: the doctor reckoned he'd been there at least a couple of hours and that head injury could have been right dangerous if they hadn't got him to hospital. And it were the hospital that called us because of his injuries – they thought he'd been in an accident."

"What about witnesses?"

"None. We only know he was hit by a car because of what the doctor reckoned about all his injuries, and when I went down and had a look at the road next to where he was found there were tyre tracks that swerved off the road and back on again."

I frowned. "Thought you said it was an accident?"

Ray shrugged. "It could have been. Drunk driver, maybe, that time of night."

I nodded, thinking it through.

"He got thrown quite a distance." Ray added, reaching for his pint. "Any further and the poor bugger would have ended up drowning in the canal."

For a split second I could see him: body water-logged, blue-tinged lips and dulled brown eyes, then I shook myself. Seen a lot of bodies in my days as a copper, that's all.

"So why'd you send him to me?"

Ray gave a wry smile. "Felt sorry for him. There was nothing else we could do, and the doctors seemed to be stumped about his memory loss. Thought maybe you could help him, what with you being a big fan of lost causes." He shot me a lopsided grin and I gave a snort.

"D'you know if he can pay the bill?"

Ray frowned in concern. "No, but I thought that's one of the first things you would check."

I just nodded and took a swig from my pint. So Tyler hadn't told the police everything. Well, if I'd just found twelve-and-a-half thousand quid hidden in my lav I don't suppose I'd have told them, either.

"Oh, there's one other thing: he's not a known criminal."

I raised an eyebrow. "Well that's reassuring."

"See, it's just that there was something weird about him when he came to the station. I can't quite put my finger on it, but he seemed to know the drill, and there were a couple of things he said, or maybe it was the way he said them…anyway, I had his name checked in our files but he came up clean."

So the name came up clean. Didn't mean the man using it was.

***

We whiled away the evening until time was called, and as we left the pub I beckoned Ray over to the Cortina and opened the boot. He let out a low whistle as I handed him the shotgun, wrapped in an old copy of the Manchester Evening News.

"I dread to ask."

"I'm just being a good citizen and handing it in to the police."

"Anything I need to be worried about?"

I shook my head. "I took it off a posh twat by the name of Luckhurst – more money than brains and a bit put out by the fact his missus doesn't like him porking younger birds."

Ray snorted. "All right. I'll turn it in and keep your name out of it." He cast me a half-chiding, half-envious look. "You want to watch it. One of these days your taste for a bit of skirt is going to get you into trouble you won't be able to walk away from."

I gave him a leer and a wink as I got into the Cortina. Ray glanced around then hustled over to his own car and stashed the gun inside before sliding behind the wheel. With a wave of thanks in his direction, I drove off into the night.

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

I managed to drag myself out of bed the next day before Annie arrived for work, and went downstairs to find Tyler waiting on the doorstep. I suppose I should have given him credit for not knocking, but I was all out of funds and charitable thoughts first thing in the morning.

"Sighing plaintively outside my window will not make me open up any earlier." I held the door open for him anyway.

He stepped inside. "Believe it or not, sitting on your doorstep is less depressing than sitting in my flat."

Seeing his wan smile I could well believe it.

"It's not exactly breakfast, but..." He pulled a packet of Garibaldis out of his pocket and handed them to me. I huffed out a laugh.

"Let's see if we can find something to dunk these in, then."

***

Over the biscuits and mugs of strong tea we talked over what we knew and what lines of enquiry I could follow for the items he'd found. Not that we really knew anything much, or that I needed his advice on what to do next, but I was curious to find out more about what made him tick, so I let him talk. Turned out he seemed to like it.

"...so I know how to drive but I don't have a car. I know how to cook and how to play chess. I can remember some random stuff, like the names of the BBC news readers, and where Schleswig-Holstein is, and how to make a transistor radio, but I can't remember anything specific about myself."

Tyler took a break and a mouthful of tea, the movement of his Adam's apple disrupting the smoothness of his pale throat. I tapped the matchbook against the desktop.

"_The Den_. Is the name familiar?"

He shook his head. "No, but I can give you the address."

I glanced up at him sharply and he gave me a tired smile. "I looked it up in the phone book."

I began to wonder why he thought he needed a private detective as he seemed to be doing just fine on his own. He returned my gaze, a shifting mixture of hope and fear and something else oddly dark, almost calculating.

"So I've got a local accent but no local knowledge." He said thoughtfully.

I was hoping he was just bright, and hadn't actually read my mind.

"You think you lost that along with the rest of your memories?"

He tilted his head to one side, considering. "Or I've been living somewhere else for some time and moved back recently."

I drained my tea, wishing it had a slug of scotch in it.

There was a knock at the door and Annie stuck her head in to say she was going to get some dinner, and did we want anything.

"Actually, yes. Come in and sit down a minute."

Looking slightly surprised, she did as I asked.

I do sometimes ask her to sit in on a client meeting, but it's generally if I think there's going to be floods of tears (the clients, not mine). It probably helps that she's a part-time psychology student – not that I hold with all that Freudian bollocks, but I'll admit that Annie sometimes gives me a useful viewpoint on things. And right now I wanted her opinion on Tyler.

"Annie, Mr. Tyler here has had a bang on the head and has gone and lost his memory."

Sam, staring into his mug as though transfixed by the tea leaves, gave a brittle smile.

"What did you say the doctor called it...?"

"Retrograde amnesia." He supplied, without looking up.

"Right." I turned back to Annie. "Now, seeing as you're our psychology expert I thought you might be able to help."

I was aware of Sam's head swivelling around.

Annie took a deep breath, shooting me a glance I recognised as 'thanks for dumping me in this without warning' before turning to Sam.

Judging by the look that passed between them I'd say her reservations were pretty short-lived. His expression had softened, and the smile on his face was now genuine.

"Well, I'm a psychology student, not a doctor, so I'm not sure about your head injury." Annie began, rather falteringly. "But there are other possible causes of memory loss that can be psychological. It's what they call dissociative amnesia."

Tyler's look had gone from friendly to keenly interested. He was hooked, all right. Before they could continue, I rose to my feet, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair.

"It sounds as though you two have a lot to discuss."

Picking up on my cue, Annie stood.

"I've got a couple of loose ends to tidy up on the McGinty case, so I suggest you take Mr. Tyler off for dinner round at Noreen's café."

I handed Annie a fiver, giving her hand a squeeze as I did so.

"Take your time."

 

***

 

Sending him off with Annie was useful for two reasons: firstly because I was willing to bet she knew far more about memory loss than me or Tyler (despite his recent library visits), and secondly because it gave me the chance to rummage around his flat when he wasn't there.

See, if there's one thing I've learned over the years it's that people rarely tell the truth. And even when they do, they always leave something out. And for some reason, it's always the little things they think are unimportant that turn out to be crucial. In Tyler's case I had the feeling we were missing the whole punchline.

Pulling out a small toolkit I got to work on Tyler's lock, thankful once again for the fruitful few hours spent in the company of Dicky Fingers as a result of calling in a favour he owed me. I'm not bad with safes, either.

It took a few minutes longer than usual for me to pick the lock but it wasn't me getting sloppy, it was just a really good lock – new skills are all well and good, but there are some days when I really miss kicking in doors and waving a badge around. I flexed my fingers and persisted until I heard the tell-tale click of the mechanism turning. I swung the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind me.

I reckoned I had at least a couple of hours: Annie's a bright lass and if the hint to take their time didn't sink in, then my comment about the McGinty case would – there is no McGinty case, as she would know.

So I took my time and made a really thorough job of it, checking for loose floorboards, sampling the herbs in the kitchen cupboards and sniffing his toiletries carefully. I found johnnies and a jar of Vaseline in the bedside cabinet. A bit old fashioned, really – I thought most birds these days were on the pill. It didn't necessarily mean anything, of course. There was nothing under the mattress or the pillows; they smelt faintly of coconut, the same as the shampoo in the bathroom.

On a whim, I lifted the lid of the toilet cistern. Well well well; as I said, people never tell you the truth.

Taped to the inside of the lid was a .38.

Shame, really; I was just starting to like him.

***

 

I left the place exactly as I had found it, re-locking the door behind me.

While feeling smug at having thought to look in the one place Tyler must have been confident I would never bother with, I wasn't sure what to do with this new piece of information. There could be lots of reasons for him having a gun – although none of them pointed to a life of innocent and wholesome pursuits. It brought me no closer to knowing who Sam Tyler really was.

It was mid-afternoon, and I decided to drop in on Trevor; his shop was on the way back to the office and I could see if the photos of Mr. Palmer were ready yet.

When I first took up the P.I. business I had realised pretty quickly that most folks want evidence for things. Not my word for it; not witness statements; but hard and fast evidence they can use to confront their business partner or husband or wife, or to prove that a long-lost loved one was very much alive and kicking, or exactly which one of their employees was nicking the office paperclips. For that I needed photos – and my usual line in wonky holiday snaps wouldn't cut the mustard. More importantly, I needed to be able to get them developed with the sort of discretion that the local chemist's just wasn't up to.

So, I took myself along to a couple of meetings of the local photography club. Not the sort of thing I'd normally be caught dead at, but any sense of embarrassment paled in comparison with the week I'd been drummed off the force and smeared across the papers like so much dripping over a doorstep. Besides, I was discovering that there were all sorts of things you could find yourself willing to do if it meant the difference between paying your rent and getting chucked out on the street.

The club had turned out to be three parts bespectacled nancies who spent their weekends sitting on station platforms scribbling numbers into their little notebooks, two-parts perverts who were honing their 'home photography' skills, and one part blokes who wanted an excuse to get out of the house and away from the missus of an evening - Trevor was one of the latter. He was actually a pro. He'd taken redundancy from the steel works a couple of years back and set up his own little studio doing weddings and family portraits and the like. We'd got to talking and found out that we'd both done our National Service in Cyprus, and it had gone on from there.

The bell rang as I pushed open his door and Trevor poked his head out of the back room.

"Ah, Gene. Come in. I've got the latest batch ready for you." He beckoned me to follow him through the curtain.

In contrast to the neat shop front, the back room looked like a bomb site. It was chock-a-block with all sorts of stuff, the shelves overflowing with stacks of photos, old camera lenses and odd bits of equipment I couldn't identify. Large bottles of chemicals were lined up under the workbench, which itself was covered with packets of photos and the remains of what appeared to be a cheese sandwich. If I didn't know first-hand what a good photographer he was, I'd be wondering how on earth he stayed in business.

He was rummaging in a drawer, finally producing a packet of photos neatly labelled with a date and my initials. Trevor handed them to me.

"They came out well – you've really got the hang of that new telephoto lens. Cup of tea?"

I flicked through the photos while Trevor put the kettle on. The blonde had looked classy at a distance but caught on film she looked tawdry and cheap. Yeah, these would close the Palmer case.

I pocketed the photos and cleared the chair so I could sit down. Trevor balanced two steaming mugs on top of a stack of magazines and perched himself on a stool while I added a healthy shot from my hip flask to each of them. His eyes lit up, as they always did. His wife was a strict Methodist and he wasn't allowed to drink at home – or anywhere else if his missus got her way – so this was his own private little rebellion. Booze was only one item on a long list of things his wife didn't approve of, judging by the sour expression on her face every time I've met her. Which is why when not at work Trevor could usually be found lurking in his garden shed – a DIY darkroom from back in the days when photography was just his hobby.

He was the sort of bearded ponce who would have been right at home in the forensics division, but he was all right and he kept schtum, which was the most important aspect of our relationship as far as I was concerned.

We drank tea and talked business – his, not mine. Trevor gave me good advice on what camera kit to buy and how to get the shots I needed, and he never asked about the contents of the photos he developed for me. I think he liked the idea of aiding and abetting a P.I. – not to mention the chance of secretly thumbing his nose at his wife.

Having met his wife, I didn't blame him.

 

***

It was nearly five when I got back to the office and Annie was just getting ready to close the place.

"You've got a couple of messages," she pointed to the pad on her desk, "And I'm not going to ask where you've been all afternoon because I suspect I don't want to know, but you won't forget to update the case files, will you?"

I rolled my eyes. I hated bloody paperwork and she knew it. We'd had a bit of a tussle over it when she first started working for me, but then she'd pointed out that having notes of what I'd done was the only way she could work out what to charge clients, and I'd come round to her point of view. In the event it wasn't too bad – just like taking down notes back when I was a bobby on the beat, really. Not that there was much to record for today.

I shut the front door, effectively declaring us closed for the day, and went to sit in the chair by her desk.

"So, how was dinner?"

"Fine, thanks." She gave me a grin. "I had a nice omelette and chips."

I lit a cigarette and wondered just when she'd got so cocky.

"And what about our mysterious Mr. Tyler?"

"Are you asking for my personal opinion or a psychology student point of view?"

I gave a shrug. "Both."

She sat back in her chair, faint frown lines appearing as she collected her thoughts, and with sudden clarity I was struck with the realisation that she was no longer a little girl. Well, that much was bleeding obvious: she was twenty-five and had been filling out her clothes with womanly curves for some years now, not that I dwelt too much on that, mind you. She was the closest thing I had to family – to a daughter, I suppose, despite the fact she sometimes acted more like my mother – and when you've watched someone grow up over the years it can take one of those odd moments of clarity for you to see them in a fresh light.

The image of her sitting thoughtfully in front of me was overlaid with a younger version, like a double exposure: Annie in her school uniform, hair coming loose from its braids, face white and tear-streaked. I was just a DS back then. I already knew her family, what with them living just a street away, and I was first on the scene that day. The day it had all changed for her - the day she'd come home from school to find her dad hanging by his neck.

Annie started talking, her voice yanking me back to the present.

"He's intelligent and well educated; might have gone to university. He's a local lad but he has wider horizons, like he's been further afield, maybe been abroad, lived in different places." She gave a small smile. "He's comfortable talking to women: I think he might have a sister or other close female relatives-"

"Married?"

She bit her lip. "I suppose he could be. But then why is he living on his own? And why has his wife not reported him missing?"

I snorted. "Why has _no-one_ reported him missing?"

We looked at each other, but neither of us had an answer. I waved a hand for her to continue.

"He's nice. Friendly. Funny. Quite charming, really. But...there's something not right about him."

I blew out a lungful of smoke. "As in lying or as in loony-bin?"

She pursed her lips. "It's just a couple of things that he said. Like, we were talking…" She sat forward in her chair. "He was asking about my degree, and then he said something strange, something like: _It might seem impossible now, but someday lots of psychologists will be women_."

I grunted. "So he is a loon. Or else he's trying to get into your knickers."

She ignored me and pressed on. "And then he sort of looked confused, like he didn't quite know why he'd said it."

I opened my mouth to say 'loony' again but thought better of it.

"So, this amnesia business – is that on the level?"

Annie nodded slowly. "Yes. I tried to trip him up a couple of times but I'd say he really has lost his memory. I can't tell whether it's physical or psychological, though." Her lips curved into a sad smile. "It was strange. He was all confident and at ease one minute, then like a lost little boy the next."

There was a wistful note to her voice which set alarm bells ringing somewhere in my head. The silence between us stretched out as I tried to find the right words of warning. Stubbing out my fag end, I leaned forward.

"Annie—"

"He asked me about you." Her words, rushed and slightly too loud, cut across mine. All right then; I'd leave it alone. I sat back.

"Well, I hope you told him about my Boy Scout badges and my stamp collection. Not to mention my legendary prowess as a lover." I gave her a wink and she laughed, the tension between us easing.

She nodded. "I did." She took a breath and her expression grew sober. "And then I told him that if anyone could find out the truth, you could."

And her eyes were filled with such absolute and unquestioning faith that I had to look away.

 

***

 

Thursday was one of Annie's days at university so it was me opening the door to let Tyler in just after nine the next morning.

"Like a bleeding bad penny. I'll tell you when I have some news, you know."

"I know."

He handed me a paper bag and I peered inside cautiously. Buttered toast, still warm.

"No jam?"

He grinned. "I'm more of a Marmite man, myself."

I pulled a face. "That would explain a lot."

He shot me a look from the corner of his eyes, amusement and a flicker of something else I didn't care to speculate on. I turned away and got on with making the tea while he made himself at home in my office.

We munched in companionable silence for a few minutes.

"Annie says it might help to jog my memory if I see familiar things, so I should try to get out and about." He paused to lick buttery crumbs off his fingers, delicate as a cat.

"So, what, you're going to wander around town and hope you recognise something?"

"Well, I thought we could try the one place that we know I've definitely been: the spot I was found."

"_We_?"

"Well, yes..."

I sat forward, my elbows on the desk. "Mr. Tyler-"

"Sam."

"--I appreciate that you are paying me. And I appreciate the delicious edible treats. But I don't appreciate being told how to do my job."

For a moment he looked crestfallen, but then seemed gripped by renewed determination. He opened his mouth but before he could argue back, I continued to speak.

"But seeing as how I'd already decided to take a gander at the spot this morning, I don't see any harm in you coming with me."

I half expected a sarky comeback but he shut his mouth and said nothing. It was only as I ushered him out of the door that I saw the smug grin spreading across his features.

 

***

 

For some reason I couldn't quite put my finger on, it was odd, seeing him sitting there in the passenger seat of the Cortina. Of course I sometimes give people a lift, but no-one regular since I worked with Ray.

Tyler fumbled with his seatbelt for a moment, then seemed to think better of it and fiddled with the radio instead. He seemed fine. Which I why I wasn't expecting what came next.

Don't know what set him off. One minute we were driving along and I was just saying that the tune on the radio had stupid bloody words (I mean, what the bleeding hell has Mickey Mouse got to do with a cow?), and the next Tyler was screaming at me to pull over.

I thought he was joking until I saw he'd gone ashen and his knuckles were white where he gripped the dashboard.

As soon as the car had stopped he flung open the door and staggered out, lurching over to lean heavily against the nearest wall. I got out too, and waited by the car. Tyler's chest was heaving and he looked like he was going to throw up, but after a moment he wiped a hand over his mouth and turned to face me. His hand was shaking as he pointed at me, and he spluttered for a moment as he tried to get the words out.

"Driving...too fast," he gasped. "Nearly hit a car...I had to get out..."

I curled a lip. "You _what_? I was nowhere near that bloke! And anyway he should have been looking where he was going."

But Tyler was shaking his head, and I could see the sweat standing out on his brow. I stepped closer, gripping his arm.

"Here – are you remembering something?"

He blinked a few times, finally focussing on my face. "What?"

"Well, we're here." I gestured around us. "This is where you were found."

This time he went green and lurched a couple of steps to lean against the Cortina's bonnet.

"Oi! You better not be thinking about spewing on my car!"

I was worried for a moment as he sucked in deep breaths, but then I got a weak laugh and a shake of the head in response. Good enough. I fished in my pockets and pulled out a flask, holding it out to him wordlessly.

Tyler noticed it and gave me a sharp glance. "Bit early in the day for that, isn't it?" he muttered, but he took it anyway and helped himself to a decent slug before handing it back.

"Better?"

He nodded, pushing himself upright. The green tide had ebbed.

"Right then. Let's get on with it."

I crossed the road to the narrow strip of wasteland which separated it from the canal. Not much to see, really. I knew there would be no traces of the accident, the tyre-tracks long gone, so I wasn't really expecting to find anything. But sometimes seeing a spot for yourself makes it easier to picture what happened. I squinted up and down the road: industrial workshops and warehouses, brick walls and high gates lining the road. It didn't exactly look like a hive of activity even on a Thursday morning. What the hell would anyone be doing out here in the middle of the night?

Moving back into the road I crouched down a bit and checked the view. The slight rise of the bank next to the road meant that the canal towpath wasn't visible from here – at least, not at the height of someone sitting in a car. If the driver had looked back to see what he had hit, Tyler's body would have been out of sight.

Nothing to suggest that it had been anything other than an accident.

Except that there was a streetlight directly overhead and the kerb was high: even I would think twice about driving the Cortina at speed up onto that. I could feel the pressure I would need to exert on the steering wheel to stop it jerking out of my grip when the wheels hit the kerb, and the angle I'd need to turn it to keep control and get the car back onto the road instead of smacking into the wall.

No. This was no accident; I was sure of it.

Tyler had wandered up the slight slope and I watched him for a minute. He was turning slowly around in a circle, looking like one of those kiddies spinning tops just before it falls over.

I walked over to him. "Do you remember anything, then?"

His face scrunched up in pain or anguish - I couldn't tell which.

I sighed. "Come on, Gladys."

 

***

It was a gloomy day, the clouds heavy overhead and the waters of the canal black and unmoving as we walked along the towpath. The oppressive stillness seemed to have calmed Tyler down and he started to talk.

"I just get these flashes. Not really proper memories, more like brief images. Feelings, maybe."

"What of?"

"Worry. Fear. Helplessness."

I snorted. "Tell you what - we'll write to Marjorie Proops."

His chin dropped to his chest, and for a horrible moment I thought I had just made another client cry. But he just took a deep breath, stopping to lean both hands on the railing, and gazed into the murky waters as though the answers might be found in their depths.

We shared a silent moment. I'd seen that look before, back in the Army and as a copper. And before that, when I was a lad, we had a neighbour who'd been a POW - poor old Bertie Gowland had never been quite right after he came home. Folks who've lived through horrible things. Seen their mates bleed to death in front of them. Found kith and kin splattered all over the road. Killed someone with their own hands. It stays with you, no matter how much time passes. Even if you lose your memory, apparently.

I cleared my throat. "Look, what about these images?"

"I see myself getting out of a car. But it's daytime, and I'm wearing a suit...I don't see how that can be connected to the accident."

"Maybe it's something from before that."

"And then I'm outside somewhere – in a park, I think – and I'm holding a shirt." He swallowed, his voice growing hoarse. "There's blood on it."

I took out my flask and had a swig before offering it to him again, but he waved it away.

"Your shirt?"

"No. I think...I think it's a woman's shirt."

"What, a _blouse_, you mean?"

"Uh...yes." He ran a hand over his face. "Oh, God. What if...what if I've _done_ something..."

I snorted. "What if I turn into the Sugar Plum fairy?"

He peered at me in confusion.

"Look, do you _feel_ like you've done something wrong?"

His face crumpled again and he turned back to the canal. "I don't know..." he took a few deep breaths then gave his head a shake. "No," he said at last. "I don't think so."

"There you are then."

Tyler looked up at me with an incredulous laugh. "What, it's that easy, is it?"

I jabbed a finger towards his middle. "Gut instinct, sunshine. Learn to trust it."

He stared at me then just shook his head, his gaze dropping back to the black waters.

Gut instinct. If only I knew what mine was trying to tell me.

 

***

 

The rain started as we headed back to the car, light at first, then heavy enough to make us pick up our pace, splashing through the puddles along the towpath. By the time we got to the place Sam had been found it was coming down like stair rods, drowning out the sounds around us until all I could hear was the dull roar of falling water.

As we hurried over the low bank back to the road Tyler stumbled and I automatically reached out to catch him.

I tugged at his arm. "Come on! I'm getting bloody soaked!"

But he leaned into me, solid like a dead weight, and the expression on his face made me grab his other arm, too, in case his legs gave way.

He was saying something, his lips moving, but deafened as I was, I could only squint at him. He pulled me closer, now gripping my forearms with a surprising strength, and yelled at me.

"I was running! It was dark and raining and I was running!!"

The rain sheeting down across our faces was making us both blink, but his eyes were ablaze and I knew that he was remembering the night of the accident. I nodded.

"Great! But I'm starting to ruddy-well dissolve!"

I pulled him towards the car and this time he came, running in step with me across the road.

Once inside, cocooned in the metal shell, the drumming of the rain cut us off from the outside world. Tyler was shaking, his teeth chattering, so I revved the engine and turned on the heating before tossing my hipflask into his lap.

"You can remember what happened?"

He swallowed a mouthful and coughed, shaking his head. "Only a bit. I can remember running in the rain. I was..." He craned to look over his shoulder, but the rain hammering down on the rear windscreen reduced the road to an indistinct blur.

"I think I was running from that direction – the canal was on my right..."

"What were you running from?"

"I don't know." He met my gaze. "Maybe whoever was in the car?"

He'd started to shake again, and I was feeling none too warm myself, so I put the car into gear and drove us both back to his flat.

 

***

 

Tyler's hands were trembling so much he had trouble getting his key in the lock. He managed it just as I was about to take it off him, and we both stepped inside. The flat felt blessedly warm in comparison to the chill of the outside air, but he went to tinker with the heating controls anyway. My coat had soaked up quite a bit of rain and it had gone through to my jacket so I stripped them both off, draping them over the back of a chair near the radiator. Tyler was pacing, arms wrapped around himself.

"Maybe it wasn't an accident. If I was running away from someone...maybe someone was _trying_ to kill me."

"Well, they didn't manage it - but pneumonia might, if you don't go and get some dry clothes on."

He looked down at himself as though realising for the first time just how wet he was.

"Go on, Sam. You look like a drowned rat. And I don't suppose your lips are meant to be that shade of blue."

He nodded and headed into his bedroom. A moment later he popped out again to throw a dry towel in my direction. I rubbed it over my hair and face. Why had he been on foot that night? And where had he been before being mown down by a car?

I dropped the towel over the back of the chair and turned to ask him, only for the words to die unspoken. He had left his bedroom door ajar, and the angle of the mirror gave me a clear view of him stripping off his sodden clothes.

I took a deep breath. "So. Given the position of the streetlight and the height of the kerb, I'd say it wasn't an accident."

Pale, pale skin, mottled with blotchy redness from the cold.

"Let's assume for a moment someone _was_ trying to run you over deliberately."

Gently curving ridge of spine breaking the smooth line of his back.

"Now, it could have been someone who knew you; someone who had planned to kill you..."

A couple of scars, faded with age; his injuries from the accident seemed to have healed.

"...but the time and the place suggests to me that this was more likely to be a spur of the moment kind of a thing."

Smooth, lean muscles flexing as he moved. Maybe he played sport; footie, or something.

"Any idea what you were doing immediately before your short, sharp encounter with the car?"

He barked out a laugh. "Besides running for my life?" He was pulling dry trousers on. "No, I don't know."

I turned away and gave my hair a final towel off as he finished getting dressed. He came out of the bedroom just as I was putting the kettle on, and stood in the kitchen doorway fastening the last of his shirt buttons.

He looked up at me and started to smile.

"What?"

He grinned and pointed to my head. "Your hair..."

I ran my fingers through it, straightening the worst of it. "Yeah, well at least I've got some. Looks like someone took gardening shears to your do."

He just grinned some more, then squeezed past me to rummage around in the kitchen cupboards.

"I think soup is called for. Tomato all right?"

So we ate soup and cheese sandwiches while we talked. Sam didn't remember much else about that night: neither where he had been nor who might have been chasing him.

"If it was a spur of the moment hit-and-run, it could have been someone I didn't know."

"Hmm. You mean you might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

"Yeah."

Nodding, I chewed my last mouthful of sarnie. It was a possibility, but I still wanted to know what he'd been doing in an area of factories and warehouses so late at night.

I knew I would need to wear out a bit of shoe leather and that having a photo of Sam would be useful, so once the rain had stopped I nipped down to the car to fetch my camera and got him to pose for a couple of head shots before I left.

He was angling to come with me, but I fobbed him off with an excuse about needing to finish work on another case. I wanted to ask questions without him being around - partly because I didn't want him breathing down my neck, and partly because I still didn't trust him.

So, I left Tyler at his flat and dropped off the film at Trevor's, asking him to rush them through.

Later, I would go back to canvass the accident area on foot.

But for now, I was going to pay a visit to the hospital.

***


	3. Chapter 3

The skies were heavy with unshed rain as I climbed the steps to the main hospital entrance. As the doors swung open I was met with that combined smell of disinfectant, urine and boiled cabbage that seems common to hospitals everywhere. Trying not to breathe in too deeply, I waited in line behind an old bloke with a wheeze and a gammy leg until it was my turn, then I asked the harried looking receptionist about Sam Tyler's doctor.

After a fair amount of to-ing and fro-ing and rifling through files, she told me that he'd been treated by a Dr. Latimer, who was far too busy to see me without an appointment and in any event couldn't possibly discuss a patient's case with someone who wasn't the patient or a close family member. It didn't matter. I hadn't counted on getting much out of the doctors, anyway. But I did manage to find out that Tyler had been on ward three.

As any div with half a brain can tell you, if you really want to know what's going on in a hospital ward the _last_ person to ask is a doctor. No, I intended to go straight to the top. Lighting up a ciggie to mask the unpleasant smell, I followed the signs along the hall and up the stairs to the ward.

I asked the first nurse I saw if I could have a word with Sister. She told me to wait and disappeared off down a hallway, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking faintly. A few minutes later a figure approached from the same direction. Starched apron, dark hair twisted up under her cap, lips pursed in a no-nonsense fashion, definite air of authority. Yep; that would be her. She fixed me with a gimlet eye.

"Nurse Watson said you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, Sister. I'm here to ask about a patient you had a few weeks back – a Mr. Sam Tyler." I tried to look winning and trustworthy, but I was a little out of practice.

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you a friend or a relative, Mr...?"

"Gene Hunt. And no, neither, really." I glanced along the hallway before stepping a little closer, lowering my voice in a confidential manner. "I'm a private investigator. Mr. Tyler still has amnesia and he's hired me to find out who he is and what happened to him."

She gave me a searching up-and-down look, and I seemed to pass muster because she nodded her head towards the waiting room. "Well, if you can sit quietly over there for ten minutes I'm due a tea break and you can talk to me then."

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and left. Not the sort of treatment I normally take kindly to, but this was her patch and we both knew it. So I lit another fag and made myself as comfortable as humanly possible on one of the hard plastic chairs.

It was nearer twenty minutes later when she returned and motioned for me to follow her, setting a brisk pace along the hall to a small staff room. One glance from her and the two nurses sitting at the table got up and left, taking their mugs of tea with them.

We sat down.

Sister opened the conversation, her tone softer than earlier. "How is Mr. Tyler?"

"He's well, on the whole; but he still doesn't remember anything. Which is why I'm here."

"Have you spoken to his doctor?"

"No; I don't really need to know details of his medical condition - I'd only understand half of it, anyway." I gave a wry smile. "Besides, I thought I'd be better off speaking to the person who really knows what goes on in here."

She gave a thin smile in return as she sat back in her seat, but her look was shrewd and knowing. "Does that always work?" she inquired mildly.

I blinked, nonplussed. "What?"

"Flattery."

I scratched the back of my head, my sheepish expression entirely genuine. "Sometimes," I admitted.

"Not that I don't appreciate the buttering up – you can carry on if you like - but what do you want from me, Mr. Hunt?"

"Well, I may be clutching at straws, but I was hoping you might know something useful: something Sam remembered at the time, maybe; anything he might have said..." I trailed off, realising just how hopeless this line of enquiry was.

Sister said nothing for a moment, and then got to her feet and set about making us both a cup of tea.

"I mean, he was in here for three weeks so I just thought there might have been something during that time...some sort of clue as to who he is."

She put a steaming mug down in front of me and watched with a critical eye as I added sugar to it before taking her own seat.

"As it happens, we did keep a close eye on Mr. Tyler."

I sat back, pulling out a packet of cigarettes, and waited for her to continue.

"At first because he had concussion, and that can be dangerous, as you probably know. And then because the police were making enquiries about his accident – if it was an accident."

She had been watching my hands as I tapped out a fag, so I offered her the packet and she took a cigarette with a fleeting but heartfelt smile. I lit it for her before lighting my own.

She took a deep drag and exhaled slowly, the lines of tension in her face softening slightly.

"He was out of it for the first few days – we had him on strong pain killers once the concussion had worn off - but I asked my nurses to keep note of anything he said, just in case it turned out to be important. Some of it was just gibberish, but..." She withdrew a folded sheet of paper from her pocket and slid it across the table to me.

Impressed, I raised an eyebrow. "You should have been a detective."

She snorted, expelling smoke through her nose and looking for a moment like a tired old dragon. "I should have been a prima ballerina, what with my legs, but here I am instead."

I unfolded the paper and read the brief notes, the date and time recorded against each entry.

"You know who this girl is that he mentions?"

"No. There was no-one in the ward wearing a red dress. But I think it was a child he was talking about, because there's another entry further on about a little girl in red."

I nodded and kept on reading. "And something about a mill?"

She shook her head. "Could have been _Pebble Mill_ for all I know."

"What's all this about his boots?" I glanced up at her sharply. "Did you check those stupid boots he wears?"

She sat forward in her chair. "Yes - there was nothing in them. But I don't think that's what he meant." She stabbed at the paper with an outstretched finger. "See here? Later that day he was going on about a car." Her eyes gleamed with a keen intelligence.

"And you think he meant the boot of a car?"

"Yes! I thought it might have been to do with his accident, but the police didn't seem interested."

I shrugged, wondering myself how much sense could be made of his ramblings. "People say all sorts of things under the influence of drugs."

She sat back with a frustrated huff. "It wasn't just the drugs; even afterwards he had nightmares. Used to wake himself up shouting. There was something on his mind, right enough."

I tapped the paper thoughtfully. The notes didn't really seem connected, and it was hardly a surprise that he'd mentioned a car, or that he'd had nightmares, given what he'd been through. Still, it might prove useful.

"Can I keep this?"

"You might as well; the coppers aren't going to investigate." Her lip curled derisively.

Folding the paper, I stashed it in an inside pocket, but not before tearing a blank strip off the bottom of it. I scribbled my name and phone number on it. "If you think of anything else that might be useful, would you give me a ring?"

"All right. And I'll speak to my nurses." She took the slip of paper from my hand. "I'm Phyllis Dobbs, by the way."

Sitting back, I finished my tea. "Do you always go to this much bother for your patients, Sister Dobbs?"

She stubbed out her cigarette with slow deliberation. "In the whole three weeks he was in here, Mr. Tyler had no visitors apart from the police. Poor man was all alone in the world, with no-one to care whether he lived or died."

"You care, though." I pointed out. "And so do I."

Her eyes narrowed. "Thought you said you weren't his friend."

I gave a slight shrug. "He's paying me to care."

She got to her feet, giving me a look which left me in no doubt that I'd just sunk in her estimation. "Shame. I imagine he could do with a friend right now."

 

***

 

It was raining again by the time I left. Trevor was still open so I dropped in for the photos of Sam and a quick cup of whisky-laced tea. He talked to me about the wedding he was doing at the weekend but I was only half listening. My mind was on Sister Dobbs and the page of notes still tucked into my pocket. Dobbs struck me as the brusque, efficient sort; not the type to go soppy and sentimental over a patient she hardly knew. Something about Tyler had rattled her.

Back at my flat I stripped off my tie and jacket then sank gratefully into my armchair, pouring myself a generous scotch. I spread out the photos on the coffee table. Three of them were straightforward head-and-shoulder shots fine for identification purposes. But the last one was different. Sam was turning away, thinking I had finished. His jawline was slightly blurred, eyes downcast, the lashes a dark smudge against his cheek.

I lit a fag and read through the notes again. It was mostly garbled nonsense – girls in red dresses, cars, mention of a mill and a mobile something or other. And some of it sounded as though he was frightened: begging someone or something to stay away from him.

No mention of names or places, though. Nothing actually useful. Almost as though his subconscious was being deliberately obtuse – annoying bugger.

I snorted, pouring myself another drink. I was pretty convinced that someone had been trying to kill him. Considering that he was still alive, it was likely that whoever it was thought they had succeeded. He could still be in danger. I should probably mention that to him, just in case he hadn't figured it out for himself.

My guts told me he was definitely in trouble, but what, exactly? I'd reassured him earlier on the towpath, but what if he really _had_ done something?

He'd had a vision of a woman's bloodied blouse, and Sister Dobbs had said that something was preying on his mind. Even Annie had thought that there was something off about him. I didn't want her getting too close to him - he seemed like a decent bloke, but was that really him or just the amnesia?

I topped up my glass, gently swirling the amber liquid. Tyler was my client, all right, but his money would buy only so much loyalty. I wasn't a copper anymore, and I certainly wasn't some sort of self-righteous upholder of morals. I've bent enough rules in my time to know that the picture isn't always black and white, right and wrong. But if it turned out he'd done something illegal or something bad, something really _evil_, could I just ignore it?

I used to think that being judge as well as copper would have been perfect: nab 'em and send 'em down. But now the thought of making that decision, of holding someone's life in my hands, just made me feel sick.

The shadows had lengthened and it was too dark to read the notes again. In a minute I would get up and switch the lights on, and maybe the TV.

But for now I drank and smoked and listened to the rain against the windows.

 

***

 

"This is becoming a habit." I held the door open for him.

"Anything to help get you up and going of a morning." Tyler stepped in, brandishing the now customary paper bag.

"Really? What have you got in there - Bridget Bardot?"

He pursed his lips as though in careful consideration. "I think I'd need a bigger bag."

He handed it to me – iced buns this morning, three of them – and headed through to my office, greeting Annie on the way.

Normally, I didn't talk through cases with the clients while I was working on them. As a rule, clients don't really want to know what you're doing to help them, they just want the end results.

But of course he was interested. And for some reason, I found myself discussing things with him.

I told myself that it was to help jog his memory. But if I'm honest – though that's a habit I'm trying to break - I suppose it felt good to talk things through with someone with a sharp, perceptive mind. Heaven help me if this turned out to be a huge mistake.

Once Annie had sorted out the tea and left us, taking an iced bun with her, I decided to broach the subject of the hospital.

"Seems you were a hit with the nurses." I took a huge bite of my sticky breakfast.

He froze, mug part-way to his mouth. "What?"

"At the hospital," I mumbled around my mouthful. "Turns out the sister was keeping a close eye on you. Got the nurses to jot down what you were gabbling on about."

"Oh." He sipped at his tea, his expression curiously neutral.

I slid the paper of notes over the desk to him, watching his reaction closely as his eyes skimmed the text.

His brow furrowed in puzzlement. "I said all this?"

"Apparently. Any of it make any sense?"

He chewed on his lip for a few moments before shaking his head.

"Not sense, exactly; but some bits seem familiar."

"What about the girl in red?"

"Oh...well...just a bad dream, I think. I mean, I'm pretty certain." He rubbed a hand across his forehead.

"And there are three separate references to a car – do you think you were remembering the car that ran you over?"

"Maybe. I don't...no." He looked up suddenly.

"You mean you don't know, or no, it's not the car that ran you over?"

"No."

I rolled my eyes. "We could be at this all day."

"I have a memory of _driving_ a car..."

"All right then. What sort was it?"

He scrunched up his eyes, the way a kid does when he's thinking hard.

"Silver. No, wait - blue. A blue Rover...3500."

"So. We now know that at some point in your life you've driven a Rover, probably a blue 3500 model. But we've no idea where or when - or what the number plate is, I suppose?"

He shook his head, looking pensive.

"Brilliant. Well, with that earth-shattering revelation I'll have this all wrapped up by dinnertime, with a nice red bow on top!"

"It's better than nothing!" he yelled back at me, suddenly galvanised.

"How, exactly?"

"I don't know! But maybe you need to look out for a Rover as well as the Triumph that hit me!"

"Triumph?"

We stared at each other.

"Yes." Sam swallowed, his voice hoarse. "I remember now - it was a green Triumph. One of those 2000 models, I think."

"Don't suppose you know who the driver was? Or the number plate?"

He gave a frustrated huff. "No." He slumped back in his seat, all the fight abruptly gone out of him.

"Hmpf. That would have been too much to ask for," I muttered, but he looked so deflated that I didn't have the heart to have another go at him. I gave a sigh. "Well, it's something; it's more than we knew an hour ago."

He was silent, staring moodily at his forgotten iced bun.

"And who knows: this might be the start of your memory coming back."

And it could also have been just a random recollection or even something he'd seen on TV, for all I knew. Nevertheless, hope burned anew in his eyes and I felt like a heel.

I looked at my watch, getting to my feet. "Look, I have to go out. Can't sit jawing with you all day; I've got business to attend to, you know."

He stood up. "Can I come with you?"

"Last time I looked, there was only my name above the door."

"What if you need back-up?"

"I'll yodel."

"Well, maybe I can help out here; you know, keep Annie company."

I took a step towards him. "Annie does not need company. Nor does she need you hanging around under her feet – I pay her to work for me, not to babysit forgetful clients!" I tried to inject a note of humour, but the words came out rather more forcefully than intended.

Tyler's expression twisted into a sneer. "I assume she's allowed a break for lunch?"

I took a deep breath. "Fine. But until then, make yourself scarce."

Ushering him to the door, I didn't miss the smiles they exchanged. I grabbed my coat and followed Tyler out. Annie already had her instructions – a visit to the stuffy County Records office to search the index for Tyler's birth record - and with a bit of luck it would keep her busy for most of the day.

Not that I begrudged her a break, but we still didn't know who Tyler really was. I had her best interests at heart. Things hadn't turned out well with that bearded tosser Neil and the last thing she needed was another crap boyfriend, let alone someone we knew next to nothing about. Better that she didn't get too closely involved with him.

 

***

I had always reckoned that the County Records office was the most boring place on earth, but after a few hours of trudging around in the rain I was more than ready to swap places with Annie.

A trawl around some of the factories and warehouses near the scene of Sam's accident had turned up nothing. A couple of the sites were closed and boarded up, but I canvassed the places that were open for business. No-one recognised the photo of Sam, apart from one old dear who thought he was 'that nice young man off the telly', or had heard of anyone called Sam Tyler. I'd been keeping my eyes peeled, but I hadn't spotted a Triumph or a Rover matching the description Sam had given me.

I managed to get a seat and a particularly greasy sausage sarnie in a local café, and I wondered if Tyler had met Annie for dinner after all.

As I left the warmth of the café the rain was coming down steadily and my shoes were letting in water, but I gave it a couple more hours, widening the search. With nothing to show for my efforts by tea-time I was considering jacking in the whole PI business and taking up paper-pushing as a living instead. At least I'd have dry feet.

***

The bell jangled as I pushed open the door to the office and Annie looked up from her desk. She gave me a bright smile, putting down her pen, and I grunted out a greeting. I was cold and wet and footsore, but couldn't help spotting Annie's eager expression.

"Either you've just won the pools or Robert Redford's proposed."

She grinned. "Not quite, but you're close." She got up and followed me into my office, brandishing her notebook with a victorious air.

"Come on, then, Cartwright, let's have it." I hung up my soaking coat and dropped into my chair with a weary sigh.

"Right. Well, there's no record of a Sam Tyler born in 1936 in the borough of Manchester; nor in the years either side."

"Well that's about as much use as a dick in a convent—"

"But there _is_ a Victor Tyler born in Didsbury in 1939."

"So?"

"I thought he could be a relative or something..." she trailed off, looking less certain.

"Do you have any idea how many Tylers there could be in the wider Manchester area?"

"Well, no—"

"Neither do I, but I'm willing to bet that I'll die of old age before I work my way through all of them!"

Annie bit her lip, looking downcast. I sighed. It was a long shot, but there was no harm in following it up.

"Don't suppose you've got a current address?"

She brightened, and tore a sheet off her notepad with a flourish. "He lives in Blackley. Chris phoned the DVLC for me," she added, by way of explanation.

I squinted at her, taking the sheet of paper. "Chris who?"

"You know - Ray's partner. The new DC."

"What, the one who looks like his mam has to do his shoes up for him every morning?"

"I don't know; I've only talked to him on the phone. He sounds all right."

I grunted. "Well let's hope he's not as daft as he looks because if Morgan gets wind of his men helping us out with the odd inquiry we'll all be for the bloody high jump!"

That thought, and the cold that seemed to have seeped through to my bones, had me fishing around in my desk drawer for the bottle of whisky and a glass. I caught Annie's look of concern, swiftly masked.

"You look perished, Gene. Why don't I make you a nice cuppa before I go?"

I waved away her offer. "Whisky will warm me up right enough."

She stood there awkwardly for a moment and seemed about to leave when she spoke again.

"Sam took me out for dinner. Just so you know."

The breath seemed to catch in my throat and I stared at her mutely.

"I think he's lonely. Just wants someone to talk to."

I nodded slowly.

"But you don't have to worry – he was a perfect gentleman." Her smile was oddly shy, like a girl telling her dad that a bloke has asked her out.

"I'm sure he was." I said finally. "But we know hardly anything about the man, Annie. And I don't want you in harm's way."

Her expression sobered, and she raised her chin.

"It's all right, Guv. I kept it professional. Friendly – but professional."

I cleared my throat. "Right. You'd best be off, then. And I'll follow up this Victor Tyler tomorrow."

She gave a nod and left me to my Teachers.

 

***


	4. Chapter 4

It was a Friday, so I did what I usually do on a Friday since the divorce: stopped off at the _Red Lion_, my local, for a pint or two, then went on to the _Viceroy_ for dinner.

Mitesh greeted me like a long-lost friend and showed me to my regular table in the corner. It was a nice place, even if the posh flock wallpaper was a bit poncy. Good food and a warm welcome - what more could a man ask for, really. I unfolded the daily paper as pint of Carling Black Label was placed in front of me. Ah, yes: perfect.

I didn't bother ordering. I would have whatever the special was that day, as usual. It was all good and I never paid, anyway. Not that I hadn't offered to on several occasions – the favour I'd done them was over five years ago now, and any debt long since repaid in curry - but Mitesh wouldn't hear of it.

My perusal of the sports page was rudely interrupted in the middle of an interesting column on Man City.

"Fancy meeting you here."

I lowered the paper to see Tyler's grinning mug.

"You know, a more paranoid man might think you were following him."

"Annie told me you always come here on a Friday." He slid into the seat opposite me.

"Oi! How do you know that seat's not taken?"

"What, by your good friend Mr. Invisible?"

I didn't dignify that with an answer. Tyler studied the menu, and for an undisturbed moment I studied him.

He seemed cheerful and he was well turned-out – or as well as he could be with that stupid short hair and worn leather jacket – but he looked tired, the skin under his eyes shadowed and papery. Maybe he wasn't sleeping very well. I suppose not knowing who you are or whether someone is out to kill you is enough to keep most people awake at night.

He nibbled his lower lip. "What looks good?"

I folded away the paper and waved to Mitesh, who came right over.

"Sam, this is Mr. Patel. Mitesh, this is Sam Tyler. And he's paying."

Sam watched in part annoyance and part amusement, as I proceeded to order enough food to keep a family of five going for a week.

 

***

"This is really good, Mr. Patel."

Mitesh beamed as he placed another round of drinks on our table.

"Thank you, Mr. Tyler. The cook is my son," he added, proudly.

I shot him a warning glance in the hope of heading him off at the pass, but he had already continued.

"And it is all thanks to Mr. Hunt - he saved his life." He clapped me on the shoulder, almost dislodging the bit of lamb on my fork, before hurrying off to serve another table.

When I looked up it was to see Sam regarding me with a raised eyebrow.

"Come on, then. You have to tell me the rest after that bombshell."

"It was nothing, really."

"Fair enough." He ate a few more mouthfuls. "Although if it was nothing, then I can't see any reason for you _not_ to tell me..."

I sighed and put down my fork. "All right." I leaned forward, keeping my voice low. "It was back when I was a DCI. We'd pulled in a drugs ring, including Mitesh's son. He was only nineteen. He wasn't a criminal, just a lad who'd got into the wrong sort of company; ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time." I shrugged. "So I gave him a good talking to and let him go. He hasn't been in trouble since."

Sam finished clearing his plate and sat back with a thoughtful air.

"You have your own notion of right and wrong, don't you?"

I pushed away my plate and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag before speaking.

"See, there's the _letter_ of the law, and then there's the _spirit_ of the law. I just think the two aren't always the same."

"And you're a 'spirit of the law' kind of guy."

I peered at him through the smoke. "Do you believe in justice, Sam?"

"Yes." His answer was unhesitating. "Well, I believe in the _idea_ of justice, as something to strive for." He gave a humourless laugh. "Even if it seems rarely attainable."

"You know I was slung off the Force for being on the take, don't you?"

If I'd been trying to shock him, it had failed miserably. His gaze was unwavering.

"Yes. And I know they dropped all charges."

"So it doesn't bother you?"

He cocked his head to one side. "You've chosen to do this, though, haven't you? To be a private investigator, to help people..."

I snorted, stubbing out the remains of my fag and lighting another.

"Oh, yes. To help people find missing cats and nail philandering husbands – real social service, that one." It was almost with surprise that I detected the note of bitterness in my own voice. But Tyler was shaking his head, a small, secretive smile on his face.

"You don't fool me. I think you're still trying to help people; still trying to make a difference; still upholding the spirit of the law in whatever way you can."

I stared at him, trying to work out whether he really was that stupidly idealistic. "It's not heroic, you know. It's tedious and boring and sometimes downright depressing. Not to mention being largely thankless and occasionally bloody dangerous."

He gave a laugh, his face crinkling with genuine humour. "Just like being a copper, then."

I think it was at that point when the idea first started to form. But then, distracted by those expressive, mercurial eyes, it went right out of my head.

Guileless victim or a master manipulator?

I didn't know. It was too late and I was too tired for further speculation or introspection.

So I ordered another round instead.

***

The street was dark and quiet, the only movement a stray cat slinking along on the other side of the road and the rippling of the puddles in the wake of our footfalls. We walked along in the sort of companionable silence that usually only comes after longstanding friendship and there was something about that which would have rattled me if I hadn't felt the mellowing effects of several pints of Mitesh's best.

"Why do you do it, then?"

The sound of Tyler's voice came almost as a relief, although it took me a moment to work out what he was asking. I shrugged.

"It's my city. My streets. There's things the coppers can't solve. Things people need me for. Like you, for one."

He slowed to a stop, cocking his head to one side as he regarded me thoughtfully. "I suppose I do." His gaze was just starting to make me feel uncomfortable when he turned and gestured to the nearest front door and I realised we were standing outside his flat.

"Well, this is me."

I nodded, shoving my hands into my pockets.

"Thanks for dinner, Gene." He still looked tired but he was smiling and I suddenly thought this might be what the real Sam Tyler was like. I looked away.

"'s all right. You paid."

He gave a laugh, genuine and relaxed.

"Well, this is the first night since I woke up in hospital that felt normal, so thanks anyway. I enjoyed it."

I grunted, distantly noting that my shoes were in desperate need of a polish.

"Um, you could come in if you want. For a nightcap or a coffee or something."

My chest felt oddly tight so I took a moment to breath in the night air before replying.

"Nah. It's late. I'd best be getting off."

He started to turn away but I caught a fleeting glimpse of something open and vulnerable before he schooled his features into polite friendliness.

"Well. Goodnight, then."

"'night." I turned and walked away.

He wasn't a friend, and it wasn't up to me to look after him, even if he was my client. So why was there a nagging feeling that settled, heavy and uneasy, in my gut?

I lit up a fag, taking comfort from the familiar drag of smoke into my lungs.

It was probably just the curry.

 

***

 

I don't usually dream, but I did that night.

It had the oddly familiar feel to it that dreams often have, even though later I could only recall disconnected impressions: the mingled smell of coconut and boot polish, sweat and gun grease; a glimpse of dark hair and white teeth; and an endless plunge through bright, thin air as the ground rushed up to meet me.

I jerked awake before I hit the bottom.

There was no way I was going to get to sleep again so I got up, rinsed off the cold sweat and got dressed, slowly. The buttons didn't seem to want to cooperate but a couple of stiff belts of scotch steadied my hands right enough.

It was still early, the morning sunlight struggling weakly through the clouds, when I took myself round to Noreen's for a cooked breakfast and a leisurely read of the paper. I was a regular, and although Noreen herself wasn't there, her daughter greeted me cheerily and took my order. I don't open up the office on a Saturday unless there's a meeting arranged with a client and there was nothing booked for today, so I killed time until about ten, which I reckoned was a nice civilised sort of hour to be paying a house call. Heading to the Cortina, I fished out the address for Victor Tyler which Annie had given me.

The street turned out to be an old terraced row, washing hanging in the back lane and kids out playing on the pavement. I found number 14 and knocked on the door. Glancing about while I waited, I could see that the step and windows were spotlessly clean but the curtains looked old and faded. The blonde who opened the door was young although she, too, had a worn look to her, despite being pretty.

I put on my best polite smile. "Is Mr. Tyler at home, love?"

"Er, no, not at the moment." She looked uneasy. "I'm Mrs. Tyler. What did you want him for?"

"I was hoping he might be able to help me, actually." She was still standing defensively behind the front door, so I added: "There's nothing to worry about, Mrs. Tyler. I'm just looking for someone who I think might be a relative of his. Can you tell me when your husband will be back?"

She looked me up and down, and her expression softened. "I might be able to help you: I know most of my husband's relatives." She stepped back from the doorway. "Do you want to come in?"

"Thanks, love."

She showed me into the small sitting room at the back of the house.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Mr….?"

"Hunt. Gene Hunt. And yes, a cuppa would be grand, thank you."

"Milk and sugar?"

"Yes, please, love."

I took a look around as she went to make the tea. The place was neat and tidy, no dust on the surfaces, although all the furniture looked like it had seen better days. I wandered over to look out of the window at the back yard, where a small boy was playing with a striped ginger cat almost as big as he was.

Mrs. Tyler returned and handed me a steaming mug. As she followed my gaze her face lit up, making her seem younger, almost carefree.

"That's Sammy, my boy," she said proudly, just as the kid turned and gave his mam a wide smile.

I took a step back, unable to tear my eyes away as the lad waved and went back to his skipping around. Next to me his mother had put down her cup.

"So how can I help you, Mr. Hunt?"

Forcing myself to focus on her, I cleared my throat. "I'm a private investigator, Mrs. Tyler." I had already decided to play it straight with her: she seemed like a decent woman and I thought the truth would work best.

"I've been hired to look for a missing person—"

Her head jerked up. "Have you found him?" She'd gone pale, her knuckles white as she twisted her wedding band. I had a hunch and decided to play it.

"Do you have a photo of your husband?" I asked her gently.

She swallowed and nodded, leaving the room. My eyes were drawn to the window: the lad was trying to get the cat to sit on a small tricycle, with little success.

Mrs. Tyler came back, holding out a framed wedding photo.

It was a nice shot. They looked impossibly young and happy and in love.

And the man wasn't Sam Tyler.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, and gave my head a shake. I caught the look of dashed hope on her face before she turned away, standing the photo on the dresser.

"He's away. Working. He's a salesman so he has to travel where the work is."

I said nothing, just drank some more of my tea. She had steadied herself by the time she turned back to me, although her gaze was again drawn to the back yard.

"He'll be back soon." Her confident tone had a hollow ring to it.

"Does your husband have any relatives, Mrs.Tyler? A brother, maybe? Or another male relative about his age?"

She shook her head. "Vic doesn't have any brothers or sisters. He's got a few cousins over in Salford, but they're all quite a bit older than him."

I fished about in my coat pocket for a moment, watching her closely as I pulled out the photo.

"Have you seen this man before?"

She glanced down and after a moment her eyes widened, as if in recognition, but I could have sworn she was telling the truth when she shook her head again.

"Never. Who is he?"

"The bloke I'm looking for."

I waited, just to see if she'd change her mind, but her eyes slid up to meet my gaze squarely.

"I know what it looks like, Mr. Hunt," she said in a low, steady voice, "but I've never met that man before in my life."

I nodded and pocketed the photo of Sam. "Thanks, Mrs. Tyler. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

I headed out but stopped at the front door and swung back to her. "Almost forgot," I shot her an apologetic smile, "must be getting careless in my old age." I reached out, taking her hand. "Reward money, love. Set by my client." I pressed a narrow roll of tenners into her palm, holding onto her hand even as she tried to pull back as though bitten by a snake.

"But...I...I haven't done anything..."

"You've been a huge help. Now I know the man I'm looking for isn't Victor Tyler. Saved me weeks of wasted effort, that has."

She bit her lip. "I don't know what you must think, Mr. Hunt..."

"I don't think anything, love. I'm just doing my job." I folded her hand around the cash. "Treat the lad to something nice, eh?"

I left before I could see the tears in her eyes. She still had her pride, and I respected that.

 

***

 

I drove the long way back to the office, stopping off to get a pie at a bakery on the way, and I thought about the smiling couple in that wedding photograph. What had gone wrong? Vic Tyler wasn't working away, he was as lost as Sam. What would keep a man away from his wife and child like that?

You never can tell, I suppose. At the end of the day no-one else knows what really goes on between man and wife, regardless of how happy they might look.

Brushing the pastry crumbs off my coat, I wondered idly what had happened to my own wedding photos. Maybe Vera had taken them with her, or maybe they were somewhere in the boxes stacked up in the attic, the ones I'd never bothered to unpack.

I was twenty when we got married. Just out of National Service and barely started on the Force. It had rained so we had the photos inside. We'd looked happy, too, at the time.

Odd, really, looking back to that day. I know now that I had been in love.

Just not with my wife.

 

***

 

The sun had disappeared by the time I got to the _One Bell_, the clouds banking low on the horizon. I was still on my first pint when Ray arrived. Following our usual routine, we had a bit of a chat and a game of darts before discussing anything serious. In the end, Ray was the one to mention Tyler.

"How's your mystery man? Has he got his memory back yet?"

"Nope. Still a mystery."

"Thought he might be. Chris said Annie rang him for a DVLC address check on a Tyler."

"Turned out to be a different Tyler; no relation. Chris is working out all right, is he?"

Ray pulled a face. "He's a bit of a div, to be honest, but he's learning the ropes all right." He paused and swallowed a mouthful of beer. "Morgan's got his head filled with a load of new-fangled nonsense – cross-referencing and tape recordings and surveillance bollocks," Ray grinned, "- but I'll soon knock some sense into 'im. Anyway, I told him to help if you or Annie rang, and he knows to keep it to hisself."

"Don't want to get you in trouble with DCI Morgan..."

"Nah." Ray waved an unconcerned hand. "Anyway, Superintendent Woolf would stick up for us – he still asks after you, you know. He always said it were a travesty, you getting slung out like that."

I nodded. Harry Woolf had done his best to make the corruption charges go away, but in the end he'd been unable to save my job. I didn't see much of him these days, and I could understand him keeping his distance. Still, he sent the occasional client my way, which was something.

"Besides," Ray continued, "Morgan's bark is worse than his bite."

I grinned and clapped a hand on his back. "Well, in _that_ case, Raymondo..."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Walked right into this one, didn't I."

"...could you have another go at the DVLC me? Tyler has a licence and I think he might own a car."

"Well where is it, then?"

"No idea. But I'd be grateful if you could check to see if there is a car registered to him."

"All right." Ray sighed. "I'll check on Monday."

"Cheers, mate. And tell Chris thanks."

Ray snorted. "I think all the reward Chris wants is to meet your Annie – he hasn't stopped bloody well going on about what a lovely voice she has."

I barked out a laugh. "Good to know I have a secret weapon."

Ray just grinned and applied himself to his pint.

Clearing my throat, I leant forward and spoke in a low tone. "Look, there's another thing. I've had a look at the scene of the accident, and from that and what little Tyler can remember, I'm pretty sure someone ran him over deliberately."

"Who would want to do that?"

"We don't know. But Tyler's remembered that the car that hit him was a green Triumph, probably a model 2000. Doesn't know the driver or the number plate, though."

Ray blew out his cheeks. "Well, I can have an ask around, see if anything has been reported since his accident, but there's a slim chance without the knowing the number plates."

I nodded "I know. Thanks."

We both concentrated on our drinks for a moment, then I lit a cigarette, offering one to Ray.

"Have you heard of a club called The Den?"

Ray's brow furrowed in thought as he lit up his fag, then he nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's one of Warren's places. A bit down-market, though." He looked up at me sharply. "This connected to Tyler?"

"Don't know. Doubt it." I took a long draught.

"Well, watch yourself if it is. We don't have any sway with Warren now, not since Morgan had a go at bringing him down."

"So no more 'special understanding'? Must make things difficult."

"Aye. It's caused a lot of bother – on both sides. But Morgan won't stand for anyone taking back-handers."

He shot me an almost apologetic look before continuing.

"He's just itching to get another chance at Warren, but the bloody poofter's too slippery – we know he's involved in all sorts, but we haven't managed to pin anything on him. He always seems one step ahead." Ray snorted. "Morgan's even been talking about calling in some outside help."

I couldn't help feeling just a bit pleased. I wasn't proud of my past cooperation with Warren – maybe I'd do things differently now – but for all his squeaky-clean, above-board, rule-book-up-his-arse approach, it didn't sound like Morgan was having any more success than I had.

_Schadenfreude._

Trust the ruddy Germans to have a proper word for it.

 

***

After Ray left I moved on to the _Red Lion_, grabbing some fish and chips on the way, and passed a few hours drinking and playing darts with the regulars. It was late when Tyler appeared and I'd had more than a few, which probably explains why things turned out the way they did.

"Like a bloody terrier, you are."

He shrugged, sliding onto a seat next to me. "It wasn't difficult: it's the closest pub to your flat."

"It's my day off."

He looked away as he handed me a pint. "So maybe this is just a social visit."

"Really? Keen to be my best mate, are you?"

"I bet the post is currently free." He looked remorseful the minute after he'd said it, but the words hung there between us like the smell of yesterday's kippers.

I downed half my pint and considered my next words. "All right, then." I gave a sigh and leaned forward to rest my elbows on the table. "I've been trying to find a record of your birth."

He looked up hopefully. "And?"

"No luck. But I did have an interesting chat with a woman living in Blackley. Want to tell me why there's a little lad called Sam Tyler running around over there?"

He blinked, but it seemed as though his eyes had become slightly unfocussed.

"I have no idea."

"He's about four. Has a tricycle and a big ginger cat."

He swallowed convulsively.

"And your eyes."

"It's not what it looks like—" His voice was curiously hoarse.

"Funny, that's what she said." I sat back in my seat. "And how would you know, anyway – thought you'd lost your memory."

He just shook his head wordlessly, but there was something in his expression that said he wasn't being straight with me. I drank some more of my pint before speaking again.

"Nice lady, his mam. Blonde. Quite a looker. Husband's away a lot." I sniffed, giving a casual shrug. "Couldn't blame you, really."

I'd noticed his knuckles whitening as he gripped the table so I should have seen it coming but his left hook still caught me by surprise. By the time I'd picked myself up off the floor, the door was swinging shut behind him.

I rubbed my jaw. Maybe I _was_ getting careless in my old age.

 

***


	5. Chapter 5

When I woke the next morning the sky was dark, shrouded in cloud, and I had to look at my clock to see that I'd slept late. It didn't matter. Sunday was my day off; nowhere for me to be and nothing in particular for me to do. When Annie's mam had still lived in Manchester I sometimes got invited round for Sunday dinner, but she'd moved to Wilmslow a year ago and Annie had moved out to share a flat with her mate Sandra, so that had come to an end.

The thickness in my head gradually dissipated as I got ready and rustled up a late breakfast, the smell of the bacon making my mouth water. I made a strong tea with a dollop of scotch in it to take the edge off, and sat at my window to eat.

Outside, the street was quiet, with just a few folk going past in their Sunday best and some kids running around, as there always are. Looked like it would rain again later.

I lit a fag.

Once the pub opened at dinnertime I would head over to the _Red Lion_. There were always a few regulars in on a Sunday who would be up for a game of cards or dominoes, putting the world to rights over a few pints.

I had no idea whether or not I was still hired. Tyler hadn't said it in so many words, but a fist to the jaw hinted that he was less than pleased with me. The jaw in question was still sore; Tyler had quite a swing on him for a scrawny bloke.

It didn't matter. He'd paid me for the work I'd done so far, and even excluding the cash I'd given Mrs. Tyler I was well up on the deal. Part of me – the part that hates giving up on crosswords – really wanted to know what had happened to him to make him lose his memory like that. The rest of me just thought he was a pain in the arse and I'd be well shot of him.

No. It didn't matter if I never saw Sam Tyler again.

 

***

The drizzle was coming down in a fine mist by the time I wended my way home later that evening. Officially the pub was meant to close from half-past two to half six, but I just stayed on through the afternoon until it got dark and I got hungry. After the fiasco of the previous night maybe I should have been a bit more on guard, but when you've whiled away the best part of six hours drinking in the pub you could be forgiven for being in a pleasantly relaxed state.

Which is the only reason I found myself so easily cornered by two blokes just a street away from my flat.

One, a bit shorter and broader than me, stepped close to face me. He wore a dark overcoat and an evil grin with matching knuckledusters.

"Time you learned to keep your nose out of other people's business," he sneered.

I sighed. "Wouldn't make me a very good detective, now, would it."

His taller mate, standing behind me, planted a beefy hand on my shoulder and I weighed up my options, wondering if I had a chance of getting to the cosh in my inside coat pocket before all hell broke loose.

Sadly, it didn't seem likely.

 

***

I could have kicked myself – if I hadn't already been in so much pain. It had been a basic mistake, one I wouldn't have made even as a plod on the beat, and I can only put it down to having been distracted by the Tyler case and lulled by the beer and the slow pace of a Sunday afternoon.

I limped my way back to my flat, taking the stairs slowly and stiffly. Switching on my bathroom light I inspected the damage, giving my ribs a careful prod. Nothing broken, but a split lip and some bruises on my ribs and hip which were going to be spectacular once they got going. I rinsed out my mouth and spat blood into the sink. At least none of my teeth felt loose.

Presumably Luckhurst had decided that having failed to do any damage to my person himself he'd get Lanky and Smiler to have a go. Well, I'd already given his wife all the evidence she needed to divorce him; I could only hope she would take the bastard for every penny he had.

I poured myself a generous scotch as the bath filled, then lowered myself gingerly into the hot water, relaxing back with a sigh against the cold porcelain. The tension and strain started to drain away in the soothing heat, so as you might imagine I was bloody annoyed to have to get out again a few minutes later to answer the insistent knocking on my door.

Flinging it open, I found Tyler standing there, plastic bag in hand. I glared at him.

"How did you get in?" I demanded, knowing full well that I had locked the front door downstairs.

But his jaw had dropped open at the sight of me in my towel. I'd like to think it was the effect of seeing my magnificent physique out on display, but I suspect it had more to do with the bruises starting to spread like garish ink blots across my skin.

"Jesus. What the hell happened to you?" He reached out a hand towards my ribs but stopped before he touched me, his hand falling away to his side.

"Women's Institute. Never forgiven me for awarding the Best Jam prize to the bird with the biggest tits."

I stepped back and he followed me in, his eyes checking me over for other signs of damage.

"Are you hurt?"

"No, no. They just tickled me."

"I mean, are you _injured_ – cracked ribs, or anything?

I gave a sigh.

"No. Look, no doubt there's a good reason for you being here - although it escapes me for the moment – but I've got a nice hot bath to get back to."

Tyler swallowed and nodded, waving me off back to the bathroom.

"Go. I'll do us some food." He turned towards the kitchen.

I opened my mouth to object, but settled for saying: "The oven doesn't work."

He just nodded and started unpacking things from his bag, so I left him to it and went back to my Epsom Salts.

 

***

Later, when we'd both stuffed ourselves with some odd pasta concoction and I'd finished wiping up the last of the tomato sauce on my plate with a hunk of bread, it seemed like the right time to be asking about serious stuff. Like whether or not I was still hired.

But first I lit a cigarette, watching Tyler's hands as he swirled the red wine around in his glass.

"I'm sorry," he said, his eyes flicking up to mine. "For last night."

Rubbing my jaw, I gave a snort. "Don't worry: it pales in comparison to the going-over I had this afternoon."

"Thank God I have an alibi." His mouth quirked in wry humour, but my lip was stinging too much for me to smile in response. I just raised an eyebrow, and he gave a shrug, looking away.

"I took Annie to the cinema. The Sting. Turns out she's a Robert Redford fan."

I took a long drag and exhaled, the smoke curling lazily in the air as I cast my mind back to the last conversation I'd had with Annie and wondered how a trip to the flicks could be regarded in any sense as 'professional'. Clearly, I was going to have to talk to her again, but I pushed it from my mind for the time being.

"So should I assume from all this—" I gestured to our empty plates "—that I'm still employed?"

Tyler blinked at me. "Yes, of course. I mean, if you still want to be."

I squinted at him through the rising smoke, and gave a decisive nod. "I'll get going again in the morning. Although," I added, "I can tell you right now I've got other cases to work on, too."

He nodded readily.

Trying not to wince, I got stiffly to my feet. "Well, this may seem hard to believe, seeing as how I'm such a fine specimen of manhood, but I need my beauty sleep."

"Wouldn't have thought you could improve perfection." Sam flashed me a cheeky grin as he got up and shrugged on his jacket. "But hint taken - I'll be off."

"As you managed to unlock the door downstairs, I'm assuming you'll save my legs and lock it behind you?"

He had the good grace to smother his grin and try to look sheepish as he ducked out the door.

There was still some wine left – not my usual tipple, but it wasn't half bad – so I finished it off, watching from the window as Sam walked along the street and out of sight.

 

***

 

Some beauty sleep it turned out to be.

When I wasn't jerking awake in pain from having rolled over in my sleep, I was haunted by dreams, strange and unsettling. Dark, still waters were transformed into calm seas and then I was sinking through the freezing blueness: only it wasn't the sea anymore, it was the sky, bright and clear, and not a cloud in sight as I plummeted towards the earth.

I awoke just before seven, sore and stiff and bloody annoyed.

So I was already at my desk finishing off a mug of tea when Annie arrived and I had to face her worried expression and concerned questions. Half way through explaining my bruised and battered state Sam turned up, clutching a paper bag, giving the door a perfunctory knock on his way in. Grateful for the interruption, I got to my feet.

"Ah. Just the man I want to see."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Doesn't say much for your social life if I'm the highlight of your day."

I snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, Tyler: I'm feeling a bit peckish, that's all. If there's not a cooked breakfast in that bag you can bugger off right now."

Annie rolled her eyes but Sam just grinned and shrugged. "Well, I _did_ think of that, but the beans made the paper bag all soggy."

He unwrapped toasted tea cakes and Annie sorted us out with mugs of tea, then we left her to the paperwork while Tyler and I retired to my office.

I eased myself gingerly into my chair, watching Tyler who was still on his feet, pacing about, bouncing a little on his toes. "I've remembered something." he said, excitedly.

"Go on."

"Last night, when I was walking home, I got these flashbacks of being in a big old building somewhere. It was dark - night-time - and I was running through the place. It was empty; just red brick walls—" he ceased his pacing and leaned over to rest his hands on my desk, "– and I think I was being chased."

I swallowed my last mouthful of teacake. "Who by?"

He gave a frustrated huff and pushed himself upright. "I don't know."

I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. "But you think this is all connected to the night you were run over?"

"Yes!"

"Hmpf. Sounds like we need to go back to the scene of the crime, Sammy-boy."

 

***

We had to be careful, of course; it was broad daylight and I really didn't want to be caught breaking and entering. So we checked the area over before targeting the abandoned places by the canal, managing to get around or over fences and walls with only a barked shin (mine) and some muffled cursing (also mine).

The first couple of places we looked over – a derelict factory and a falling-down warehouse - didn't spark anything in Tyler's memory. But the third place we managed to get into, via a low wall at the back, looked a lot more promising. For one thing it was part of an old mill, which rang a distinct bell from Tyler's hospital bed ramblings. And for another, the main set of doors were secured with a shiny new padlock.

Sam had fallen silent, tight-lipped and tense, and I followed him round the red brick wall to a side entrance. There was a new padlock on here, too, which didn't look any easier to pick. Fumbling in my pocket for my toolkit, I had a quick glance around for alternatives but the windows were too high to get to without a ladder or some serious cat-burglar skills. So I fished out my lock-pick - only to find Tyler already at work with his own bent piece of metal. Sneaky bastard.

"You know Dicky Fingers an' all, do you?" I muttered, but he ignored me, focussing on the lock in his hands, the tip of his tongue showing pink and moist at the corner of his mouth.

After what was only a couple of minutes – although it felt a lot longer – there was a click as the lock sprung and Sam slipped it out of the clasp. Carefully, he eased open the door and then stepped in, with me at his heels.

Inside, the place was dim, with sickly light filtering in from a high window. I found a light switch over on the wall and gave it a try. Flurescent strips flickered into life and I could see that we were standing in a narrow passageway which led off ahead of us, with doors to our left and right.

Sam was tense and alert next to me, although his eyes were oddly unfocussed as though he was seeing something else entirely, and, not for the first time, I wondered how reliable his recollections really were. After a moment, he moved off down the passage and I followed him.

The place was like a bloody maze, side passages branching off and doorways looming dark and empty on both sides, but Sam, trailing his fingers almost absentmindedly against the bricks, kept straight on. We took a left and then a right-hand turn, eventually coming out at the end of the passage into a large room. Groping along the wall I found switches which turned on the lights hanging on long chains from the high ceiling, patterning the floor in pools of shadow and light.

There were some crates stacked off to one side and a heap of old machinery piled in one corner. Places to hide, then. But Tyler ignored these entirely and went over to the centre of the room, fixing his eyes on a spot on the floor. I reached his side and followed his gaze down to a large brown patch staining the concrete.

"Well," I said, as Sam sank into a crouch, "it's either an unfortunate incident with the tea-urn or else someone had the bad manners to bleed to death all over the floor."

I peered over his shoulder as Tyler traced the outline of the mark with his fingers. He nodded slowly. "Shot from close-range – look at the spatter pattern." He pointed to a spray of brown droplets just beyond the stain.

"Oh, come on! You can't tell all that just from a few faded marks."

He stood, brushing his hands off against his trousers. "No." He said with a sigh, turning to look at me, his eyes shadowed. "But I remember seeing it."

 

***

Tyler's jaw had a determined set to it so I watched and waited as he paced around.

"He was standing here, the bloke who was shot." He indicated a point on the floor. "He had his back to me...I was behind those crates, there."

"So you saw him get shot and go down?"

"Yes, right there."

"And did you see the bastard who did it?"

"Yes. He was here." Sam went to stand in position.

"What did he look like?"

"Caucasian male, late thirties. About 5'11; slim build, brown hair, blue eyes."

He rattled it off with no hesitation.

"Hang on, what was that first thing?"

Tyler blinked. "White. White male."

"And you'd recognise him again?"

"Oh yes." He sounded sure and confident, and I was wondering about the way he'd reeled off that description but he spoke again, his words derailing my thoughts.

"There was someone else here." His expression had darkened, brow furrowing. He took a couple of steps. "Someone in the shadows..." He gestured, as though trying to grasp the memory in his fists but then he shook his head, hands falling loosely to his sides. "I don't remember. Maybe I didn't get a clear look at him."

"What were you doing, then, while all this was going on?"

"I was watching...I didn't do anything to save him...I...I tried to get out that way-" he pointed to the door we had come through, "I remember being chased down that hallway...then I think there were others outside. It...it all gets a bit hazy after that." He broke off, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

"All right. What about the bloke who was shot – what did he look like?"

"White bloke. Tall – 6 foot or just over; dark hair. I think..." His note of certainty trailed off and he turned to look at me, his expression troubled. "Gene, I think I _knew_ him."

 

***

 

"I can't really explain it," Tyler said round a mouthful of cheese sandwich, "But I think he was familiar, someone I'd seen before that night."

We were sitting in a corner of a pub, food and drink in front of us. By the time we'd finished our search of the mill, sneaking out and replacing the padlocks on the way, it had been time for a break and a spot of the old liquid refreshment.

"The gunman or the victim?"

"The victim."

"Are you going to eat those pickled onions?"

He pulled a face and pushed his plate towards me. "Knock yourself out."

I speared one and munched on it thoughtfully. We hadn't found anything else in the mill, so whoever had died there had been removed elsewhere by person or persons unknown. And whoever they were, they must have been the same person or persons unknown who chased Sam and then had a good try at running him down in a car.

"Can you remember his face?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "Not really." He sat back in his seat with a frustrated sigh. "I _am_ remembering more, but it's all disjointed. Like having a jigsaw with half the pieces missing."

"So is there anything else? Anything you heard, maybe, something one of them said?"

Tyler chewed on his bottom lip for a moment.

"There is one thing – but I don't know how it's all connected."

"Go on." I snaffled another pickled onion.

"I keep seeing a crown."

I clicked my fingers, as though in sudden realisation. "Don't tell me – you're actually the Queen of Sheba."

He rolled his eyes but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. "Not a real crown, you daft bugger, just an image of one. Simple, like a kid would draw."

Fishing about in my pockets I found a pen and slid it over the table to him. Sam grabbed a beer mat and scrawled a picture on it, tilting it so that I could see.

It was plain and almost childish, and God only knew how it fitted into things – maybe it didn't – and yet there was something unsettlingly familiar about it. I thought about it for a moment but the connection slipped away, like a bar of soap in the bath.

With a shrug, I drained my pint and put the glass down in front of him, pointedly.

"My round again, is it?" Tyler asked, cocking an amused eyebrow. "Pint of Babycham?"

"You have whatever you want, Gladys, but mine's a bitter, ta very much."

"Doubt they have diet coke, anyway," he muttered.

Curious, I glanced up and just caught the doubt and confusion which flashed over his face before he hurriedly stood and headed to the bar. I watched him as he waited to be served, foot jiggling against the rail, fingers tapping out a random tattoo on the counter, and I wondered how much of his memory was really still missing, and how much he was deliberately holding back.

Part of me didn't want to know.

 

***

 

I left Tyler at the library and dropped in on Trevor to give him the mill photos to develop before heading back to the office later that afternoon. Annie was out at one of her classes and I could hear the phone ringing as I fitted my key into the lock, but by the time I'd got the door open it had stopped.

Sitting down at Annie's desk I checked through the messages she'd left for me. A couple were about bills, one was a potential new client, one was from Sister Dobbs saying she'd call again later and the other was from Ray asking me to ring him back.

I dialled his number, mulling over the events of the morning as I waited for Ray to answer.

"DI Carling."

"Ray, it's Gene."

"Ah. Hang on."

There were muffled sounds before he came back on the line, speaking in a lowered voice.

"Right. You know you asked me to check if your mystery man has a car? Well, he has. A 1972 Rover 3500, and the licence number is SHK949K."

I scribbled it down, wondering where the hell it was.

"Thanks, Ray."

"'S all right. Don't know how that's going to help you, though."

Neither did I.

"Listen, there's one more thing.."

He snorted, but it was in good humour. "There always is with you."

"You know how you checked if he had form? Well, I need you to check if he's a copper."

"You what?"

"He definitely sounds like he's been in the force at one time or another, so can you have a look into it?"

"Well, I suppose I can check here and I can ring Lancashire and ask them, but that's about as best as I can do for now."

"Thanks. I owe you, Ray."

He gave a resigned-sounding laugh. "Yeah - next round is on you."

I thought fleetingly of telling Ray about the mill, but what was there to tell him? We had no real evidence, apart from what looked to be a blood stain and even that could be explained away, no matter what fancy ideas Tyler might have about blood splatter patterns or whathaveyou.

After I'd hung up the phone I had a half-hearted look through the files Annie had stacked on my desk and toyed briefly with the idea of writing up some of my backlog of notes. It was about as appealing as a night of passion with Hilda Ogden, so I made myself a mug of tea instead and settled down, stretching out my legs to prop my feet up as I thought about Tyler.

There was more to him than met the eye, that much was obvious despite the amnesia. The way he talked about the crime scene. His uncanny abilities with a lock-pick. His professional descriptions of the men. Even down to the way he thought, quick and logical.

Assuming that he wasn't a nutter (which was always a possibility), and hadn't just made it all up, then it boiled down to just a few possibilities.

He was either a copper or a criminal.

Or both.

 

***


	6. Chapter 6

It was late in the afternoon when the phone rang again, rousing me from what I like to think of as a thoughtful mood but what Annie would call a light doze.

"Gene Hunt."

"Hello, Mr. Hunt, I've been trying to get hold of you."

Recognising the voice at the other end, I bit back a saucy reply. "Ah, Sister Dobbs. What can I do for you?"

"It's more a case of what I can do for you – this may be nothing, but I thought I should ring and let you know."

"Yes?" I prompted, sitting up straight.

"Nurse Watson has informed me that there were two men here asking about Mr. Tyler." She huffed. "They actually came in on Saturday morning, but the stupid lass only just saw fit to tell me."

"What did they say?"

"Well, they claimed to be friends of his and asked about his condition, whether his memory had returned and if he knew who he was."

"Did they give their names?"

"No. But one was a tall thin bloke and the other was a bit shorter and heavily built. Sorry if that's a bit vague, but it's the most she could remember."

A horrible suspicion started to form. "And did she tell them anything?"

"She just told them that he still had amnesia when he was discharged. Thankfully, she knows not to give out patient information but she gave them your name and number instead."

My head started to ache and I closed my eyes, the horrible suspicion now growing into a fully-fledged theory, compete with flashing lights and ringing bells.

Sister Dobbs continued. "And perhaps I'm worrying with no need, but if they really _were_ friends of Mr. Tyler, then why didn't they know more about who he is when she asked them?"

***

I thanked her and rang off. The two men had found me, all right; no sense in getting Nurse Watson into even more trouble by telling Dobbs that.

Because it was far too much of a coincidence for it not to have been Lanky and Smiler. What was it they'd said? _Keep your nose out of other people's business_. Not exactly the most informative of warnings. Maybe there'd been more, but by that point I'd been a bit distracted by the boots and fists, so I couldn't claim that I'd been paying much attention to whatever they were saying.

They were clearly thugs for hire, so who had hired them? And what, apart from beating me to a pulp, were they hired to do?

Were they looking for Tyler? They hadn't asked me any questions – well, not that I could remember. But what if they'd managed to find him?

I got to my feet, wiping my suddenly clammy palms on my trousers. I was intending to pop round to see Tyler tonight, anyway. Might as well go now.

 

***

I knew there was no-one following me, but I took a roundabout route just in case.

Tyler answered his door looking tired and wan, his hair ruffled as though he'd been running his hands through it the wrong way. He seemed to brighten as he let me in and busied himself making some tea, bringing it over to the sofa. I sat down, looking pointedly from the mug to him and then back again, and after a moment of confusion he rolled his eyes and with a resigned sigh he produced a bottle of Glenfiddich from the cupboard and plonked it on the table.

My eyes widened. "Blimey. You _are_ spoiling me."

"Just don't drink it all at once," he grumbled.

I didn't dignify that with an answer, but poured a decent measure into a glass as it was really too good to go into my tea.

Setting the bottle to one side, I turned my attention to the papers spread out on the coffee table. There were pages and pages of notes written in a neat, cramped hand and Sam gestured towards them as he sat down next to me.

"I've written down everything I can remember. It's still very patchy, but some things are starting to make sense."

I swigged my tea and let him talk. He re-capped what we knew, using a fancy-pants graph thing he'd drawn to show the sequence of events. Then I filled him in about his car.

"Where the hell is it, then?" he asked, frustrated.

I shrugged. "I imagine it's wherever you left it before you lost your memory."

He shot me a narrow sideways glance. "Helpful, Gene, thanks."

"Besides, you might have more to worry about." I paused to sip my scotch, savouring it for a blissful, all-too-brief moment, then told him about Lanky and Smiler and the phone call from Sister Dobbs. Judging by the way his jaw tightened, he could work out the odds of a coincidence just as well as I could.

"Jesus." He ran his hands over his face and through his hair, making it stand up even further. "What the hell am I in the middle of?"

I didn't know the answer so I poured us both another drink.

"Gene...there's something I didn't tell you." He paused, biting his lip, and I wondered where this was going, an increasingly sordid variety of alternatives flashing through my head as he got up and went into the bathroom.

Tyler came back holding out a gun – at least this one wasn't pointed at me.

"I found this hidden with the money," he confessed.

I raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise and met his gaze, his eyes dark and wide with worry. He swallowed thickly. "What if it's the murder weapon-"

"Tyler, we don't have a body – we don't even know there's been a murder."

He put the gun on the table and sat back down next to me with a frustrated sigh.

"If only I could remember who those men were...I don't suppose you've heard anything from the police about a body being found, have you?"

"No. Tell you what, I'll give DCI Morgan a ring tomorrow – he'd be delighted to help, what with no body and our only witness being an unreliable amnesiac with a gun hidden in his bog!"

"I could look at some mugshots," he persisted, sounding mulish.

"They'd only have your word that a crime had been committed-"

"But a crime _has_ been committed!"

"- and we don't know how you're mixed up in it! You might be..." I tailed off and he shot me a sharp glance.

"Guilty?"

"I was going to say 'a convenient scapegoat'."

Sam gave a pained groan and slumped back on the sofa, his knee brushing against mine. I stilled and took a deep breath.

"Look, Tyler, it's up to you: if you want to throw yourself at the mercy of the coppers then don't let me stop you. Morgan's a hard bastard but he loves his rulebook so he's unlikely to fit you up, at any rate." I peered into my scotch for a moment, holding myself back from swigging it down. "But my advice to you would be to wait until we know more – and can prove more." I took a mouthful; it was smooth and peaty but something had a bitter edge to it.

We exchanged a look: his anxious but determined, mine sure and just as determined.

"Okay. I'll wait," he said finally. "– for now."

I gave a curt nod and downed the last of my scotch as I got to my feet.

"Right. I'll be off then, and tomorrow I'll try to find out who owns that mill." I picked up my coat and stepped towards the door. "And in the meantime be careful – we don't know who might be looking for you."

He nodded, then his expression softened.

"I was just thinking of having dinner - you could stay if you want." His voice was deliberately casual. "I've done a stew and there's plenty to go around."

What was it Annie had said? He was just lonely.

He'd told me about me the gun, which I suppose meant he trusted me.

Didn't mean I trusted him. But then again, he did cook a surprisingly decent dinner.

I sniffed, setting my coat down over the back of a chair. "I suppose my 'oops can wait for another night."

 

***

 

Despite – or maybe because of – the tense and uncertain situation, we managed to spend the evening talking about other things. Football and food and music and TV and Westerns, and whether Eric and Ernie were funnier than Dave Allen, and although Sam sometimes stopped himself mid-sentence, suddenly silent and pensive, I managed to make him laugh out loud a few times which was strangely rewarding. It should have been odd; awkward and stilted. But it wasn't.

And later as I made my way home, full of lamb stew and beer and a warmth that may have been the Glenfiddich and may not, I had to remind myself that I still didn't trust him.

 

***

 

The next morning dawned gloomy and overcast, and I braced myself for a day of stupefying boredom as I headed off to the planning office at the Town Hall.

Of course, I couldn't assume that the owner of the mill necessarily had anything to do with the killing (if indeed there had been a killing), but it seemed a good place to start. If Tyler's story was true, then there must have been some reason for those men to have been in the old mill at that time of night: maybe the shooting had been deliberately planned, or maybe it had been some sort of meeting gone wrong, but either way someone had chosen that location and then locked it up securely afterwards.

At the planning office I had to queue to request the information, then wait around for what seemed like an age listening to a bloke argue about an extension to his house. By the time I was called over to the counter I'd worked my way through one hipflask, read the newspaper three times and knew everything there was to know about load bearing joists.

Still, the wait was worth it. There it was, in black and white on page two of the file: Porter Street mill; owner: Mr. Stephen Warren.

 

***

 

Grabbing an egg buttie from Noreen's on my way back, I finished it off just as I walked into the office. Tyler was already there, perched on the edge of Annie's desk as he looked through one of her psychology books. Annie was by his shoulder pointing something out to him and I came to an abrupt halt as something in my guts twisted.

They had both looked up at the sound of the bell ringing and Sam hopped off the desk to greet me as Annie stepped swiftly away from him, moving to put the kettle on.

"Gene. Annie was just showing me this study on psychogenic amnesia. It says that if the memory loss is psychological, rather than due to physical injury, the chances of the subject regaining their memory is higher if they try psychotherapy."

I nodded as though I'd actually taken any of that in.

"Great. I'll remember all that in case I'm ever on Mastermind."

His face fell a bit, like I'd taken the wind out of his sails, so I clapped him on the shoulder, steering him into my office.

"I've got news, too."

He brightened, watching me with an expectant air as he took a seat by my desk.

"You ever heard of Stephen Warren?" I kept a careful eye on his face as I spoke.

The glassy-eyed look was there, the one I was coming to know all too well, but this time it had to compete with mingled fear and revulsion which spread across his features. He tried to control it but I could see he was fighting to breathe, gulping in air like a landed flounder.

I held out a flask but he made no move to take it, curling forward in his chair instead, his arms wrapped around his middle.

"Here, come on, Sam." I reached out a tentative hand to his shoulder. "You all right?"

Of course he wasn't, but I was momentarily stumped. With an upset woman, a cup of tea and a sympathetic ear usually does the trick - or a slap as a last resort in the case of genuine hysteria (so I've heard – haven't had the opportunity to try that one out myself). I didn't know what this was, and Tyler was no woman, but I found myself rubbing small circles on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin material of his shirt.

I was just considering giving Annie a shout for some strong tea when he gave a shudder and his breathing started to calm down. He gradually uncurled, leaning back, and I removed my hand, stepping away to give him some breathing space. I nearly told him to pull himself together and stop being a right jessie, but I had no idea what was wrong with him and didn't want to risk setting him off again.

"If you feel faint you're supposed to put your head down between your legs." I said, sounding lame even to my own ears. To my relief, the ghost of a smile crossed his lips.

"I don't think that's going to be necessary," Sam said, his voice hoarse.

"And you're not going to heave up anywhere?"

He gave a weak laugh. "Not today."

His eyes were shining wetly, the lashes clumped together, and the image of him in the photo I'd taken, blurred and shadowed, flashed through my mind.

"All right then." I perched on the desk in front of him. "You feel up to telling me what that was all about?"

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, but stayed silent.

I waited for a moment, listening to his breathing even out. "Look, Sam, I can't help you if you won't confide in me..."

He was shaking his head, his lips pressed together.

Frustrated, I ran my hand through my hair.

"Warren is trouble. He owns that mill, and he owns The Den, and he's up to his neck in dodgy deals. I need to know what you might have been involved in before we get in any deeper."

"I can't...I mean, I don't know." His jaw had that obstinate set to it that made me want to punch him one. I looked away before I gave in to temptation, and took a swig from my flask instead.

Tyler finally broke the tense silence.

"I do recognise the name. I think...I think I know him. And I don't think I like him." He looked up at me, the stubborn expression belied by something in his voice altogether more raw and desperate. "I can't explain it, but there's something about him that makes me feel...angry. And...a bit sick."

"If it's any consolation, I think he has that effect on a lot of people," I told him. But Tyler, still hugging himself, didn't look remotely reassured.

"Did you know Warren owns The Den?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"And you have no idea what you were doing there, or how you know Warren?"

Another shake of the head.

"Ok. I'll have a look into The Den. Meanwhile, I think you should talk to Annie about getting that psycho-whatsit thing arranged. It might help you remember more."

Under the cover of putting the kettle on, I nipped out and asked Annie to talk to him. Tyler was clearly rattled, and I didn't know how much of that was to do with Warren and the memories his name had evoked. Maybe Annie would have a better idea what was wrong with him – although I was starting to think that my original diagnosis of loony wasn't far off the mark.

I left them in my office and retreated to Annie's desk, getting out the file on Tyler as their voices murmured on softly in the background. There was a manila envelope tucked inside the file and I took it out, shaking the contents onto the desk and sifting through the items. I set aside the small key and the match book and after a cursory glance, took a closer look at the dirty scrap of cloth that I had assumed was a hanky. The fabric, I realised, was thicker than a normal pocket handkerchief, and most of the grime seemed to be dust rather than anything less savoury. I knew what this was. I had one myself, albeit decidedly cleaner. It was a lens cloth, crumpled and well-used. Tyler didn't wear glasses – nor did he seem like he needed to – so did he have a camera? No, I definitely hadn't seen one in his flat.

I pocketed the key and the matches, and was just sweeping the thin notebook and the lens cloth back into the envelope when Annie popped out of the office to retrieve her handbag.

"I'm just getting Dr. Crabtree's phone number," she explained as I looked up.

"Look, will you be all right if I nip out for the rest of the afternoon?" I nodded meaningfully in the direction of my office where Sam was still sitting. I had serious misgivings about leaving them alone but I couldn't babysit Tyler all day.

She glanced back over her shoulder then smiled back at me. "Yes, of course. He's calmed down now and he's fine." Annie lowered her voice. "Really Gene – he's all right. Once I've called Dr. Crabtree I'll send Sam off home. Or to the library – I think there's more reading he wants to do."

Although my instincts said not to leave her with him, I knew that I had to learn to trust Annie's judgement and she seemed sure about this.

I stuck my head around the door and Sam looked up, giving me a rather sheepish smile.

"Sorry about earlier," he said. "I'm not quite sure what happened, but I guess I'm still a bit out-of-kilter."

"Hm. Well, I've got to see a man about a dog so I'm going to leave you to Annie's tender ministrations."

For once, he just nodded in agreement instead of arguing to come with me, which threw me a bit. I sniffed.

"Right then. Well. Mind you do as she says, and don't hang around all afternoon getting un-"

"..under her feet. Yes, I know. This isn't a babysitting service." But he tempered his words with a grin which, if tired, looked genuine enough.

After a moment's hesitation, I gave a nod and left.

 

***

My first stop was Davey Robinson's locksmith shop. As luck would have it Davey himself was there, rather than his part-time help. He was perched on a stool behind the tiny counter, squashed in between a display of padlocks and a sign advertising key cutting. It was a long shot that he'd be able to tell me much but I showed him the mystery key, anyway. He folded away his newspaper and leaned forward, scowling as he peered through a magnifying glass to examine the small item.

"Thought it might be a padlock key," I suggested, but he shook his head.

"Nah. More likely it's from a locker or a heavy-duty filing cabinet. Or a safety deposit box, maybe."

I thought about all the places in the city which might have public lockers, and all the banks with safety deposit boxes, and gave a groan.

"That would be like looking for a needle in the proverbial. Can't you narrow it down at all?"

He shook his head, setting aside the magnifying glass. "Sorry, Mr. Hunt."

Just as well I hadn't got my hopes up, then.

I slipped the key back in my wallet, thanked Davey, and left, getting back into the Cortina and driving on to Trevor's.

He'd just finished developing the mill photos and handed them to me to look through as he dealt with another customer. The flash had worked pretty well and the colours had come out all right, but even so the blood stain was little more than a rusty pattern: darker brown against a paler background, making me think of those weird ink blot tests in one of Annie's books.

I wondered what it said about me that I thought it looked like a poodle.

 

***

 

"Is he a crackpot, then?" I asked conversationally, swinging my feet up onto my desk.

Tyler was long gone by the time I got back to the office for which I was grateful - once I pushed aside my nagging sense of worry over where he was and what he was getting up to. At least it meant I could pick Annie's brains freely.

She plonked a mug of tea in front of me and gave an exasperated huff at my question. "No. But I think he's been through something traumatic."

"What, apart from being run over?"

"Quite possibly, yes. And it's left his brain still trying to cope with it."

I frowned. "Like shell-shock, d'you mean?"

"Yes, that sort of thing." Annie took a seat opposite and sipped thoughtfully at her tea.

"All right, then, tell me what this psycho-thingy amnesia is."

"Psychogenic. Well, basically it's when there is no physical explanation for the amnesia, so the cause must be psychological."

I tapped out a fag and lit it. "But Tyler _did_ get hit on the head – he had concussion, for God's sake."

"Right, so we don't know for sure why he's lost his memory, but judging by his reactions to things that prompt his recall, I'd say there is a psychological dimension to it."

I squinted at her through the lazy coils of smoke. "So, you're saying he had a nasty experience and his mind made him forget about it?"

"It may not be a _single_ experience. It could be several things, or a period of intense stress." She put her mug down. "Gene, who is Stephen Warren?"

"A scumbag masquerading as a businessman." I took a deep drag on my ciggie. Annie wasn't a delicate flower, but I wasn't sure how much to tell her. She met my gaze squarely and I sighed.

"You know The Warren?"

She nodded.

"Well, the club is just a front. A very nice, useful front where he can be seen hobnobbing with coppers and local bigwigs, all butter-wouldn't-melt, upstanding pillar of the community stuff. But behind the scenes he's got fingers in all sorts of pies – drugs, prostitution, extortion, gambling - you name it and he's had his grubby paws all over it." I didn't mention his taste for rent boys, who he also had his grubby paws all over – there were some things Annie didn't need to know.

"Why would Sam be involved with someone like that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Cartwright."

I swigged some tea and we both fell silent. My fag had nearly burnt down before Annie spoke again.

"Whatever happened to make Sam lose his memory, I'd lay good money on this Stephen Warren being linked to it. When we were talking after you'd left, Sam was still worked up by the mention of Warren's name. And his body language was really defensive."

I thought back to the way Sam had wrapped his arms around himself. Stephen Warren could be brutal – not that he did much of the physical work himself, mind you, he had heavies for that. But he wasn't above getting his own hands dirty if he wanted to, Catholic guilt notwithstanding, and I knew he was none too gentle with the rent boys he manhandled. I wasn't sure I liked where my thoughts were heading.

"When you say _defensive_ – do you mean as in being attacked?"

Annie pondered for a moment. "It could be, but not necessarily. It can be a reaction to something very frightening or shocking...something that would make him feel vulnerable." Annie's eyes dropped to her hands where they twisted in her lap.

"Did he..." She trailed off and swallowed and tried again. "Sam's injuries – were they just from a car accident?"

Leaning over I stubbed out my cigarette with more force than strictly needed, my mouth suddenly dry. "So far as I know." I drained the dregs of my tea before continuing. "If he'd been beaten up or...something – would that account for the amnesia?"

She gave a small shrug. "It could do, I suppose."

Forcing my mind away from that particular avenue, I asked: "So what's the cure? He goes to see a quack for some psycho-bollocks-therapy and Bob's your uncle, good as new?"

Annie smiled wanly. "It's not quite as easy as all that. There are different things a doctor can try. Hypnosis, for instance. Getting Sam to re-live things. There are drugs that can help in some cases."

I looked out of the window, seeing the clouds gathering overhead. "So there's no guarantee that he'll get his memory back?"

"No."

The rain began, fat drops hitting the window and running down the glass in rivulets, patterns within patterns.

"If he's been through something that bad," I mused, "maybe amnesia is a blessing."

 

***

 

Annie left and I relaxed with a second glass of scotch, savouring its bite as I took a large swig.

The more I thought about it the more obvious the answer seemed to be. Tyler's connection with Warren; his presence in the mill that night; the fact they'd tried to kill him...

Tyler was a copper. A copper working undercover. He _had_ to be.

Except that Ray had rung to say there was no record of him at Manchester or Lancashire.

It wasn't conclusive, of course. It was possible that he was with a different force. But then what was he doing in Manchester? And why had no-one come looking for him when he failed to report in?

I sighed, getting to my feet and sweeping my coat off the hat stand. There was only one thing for it: I would have to go to work.

 

***


	7. Chapter 7

_The Den_ turned out to be the sort of place that you wouldn't want to bring your mother to. Or anyone else's mother, for that matter.

With dark walls and low lighting and floors that your shoes stuck to, I can't say I was too enamoured with it myself. The air was thick with smoke, overlying the sharper tang of sweat and an odd cloying scent that made me think of rotting fruit.

I didn't exactly have a plan; I thought I would have a drink and scout the place out before deciding what to do. I wanted to find out what business Warren did here and who he saw. Clearly not the coppers or the social bigwigs, the footballers or the musicians – they were allowed free passes to _The Warren_, which was beginning to look like the Ritz compared to this shithole.

There was no-one in here I recognised. Warren would know me, of course, but this didn't seem like the sort of place he'd want to hang around, even if he did own it. Ordering a beer, I settled at a table in a darkened corner which had a good view of the bar and the door behind it marked 'Private'. I took a mouthful, trying to suppress a grimace. I was expecting that it would take more than one night's worth of surveillance before I gathered much information on the comings and goings, but if the beer was anything to go by it was going to feel a lot longer.

As things turned out, I didn't have to wait long at all.

I was only on my second pint when a familiar figure entered and sauntered up to the bar. Tyler. Twitching fingers and the tight set of his shoulders were a dead giveaway for the coiled tension beneath his seemingly casual pose, and I wondered how he had steeled his nerves to beard the lion in his den.

Deliberately relaxing my hands which had curled into fists at the sight of him, I forced myself to sit still and take a deep breath. What the hell did he think he was doing? Either he'd decided to take matters into his own hands and face his demons - in which case he'd been reading too many of Annie's psycho-bollocks books - or else he really _was_ in league with Warren, and the amnesia story was just a smokescreen...

I gave myself a mental shake – no need to imagine things worse than they already were. Besides, Tyler had perched on a barstool and appeared to be ordering a beer in a manner that suggested stupidity with a touch of madness rather than any complicated conspiracy directed against me. As though to confirm my thoughts, he glanced casually around and when his eyes alighted on me I caught the tiniest flicker of guilty recognition before they roamed on. He turned back to his drink, leaving me unacknowledged and incognito. Whatever he was up to, he was letting me observe things and trusting me to watch his back - finally a sign that there was some sense in that thick head of his. Not that it made up for him being here in the first place, the bloody idiot.

He sipped his beer for a while, intermittently chatting with the barman, and although I had to strain to hear the words I could follow their conversation well enough.

"Is Mr. Warren around tonight?" Sam was asking.

The barman's eyes narrowed a little. "I know you, don't I. You've been in here before. Sam, isn't it?"

I couldn't see Tyler's face, but I hoped to God he was a better poker player than I gave him credit for and had managed to hide his excitement at having been recognised.

His voice sounded level enough when he replied: "Yeah, that's right."

The barman seemed to lower his guard, giving Sam a smile. "Oh, yeah - Mr. Warren's friend." I could've been mistaken but there seemed to be a knowing undertone to his words that I didn't like the sound of. "Yeah, I remember. You haven't been around for a while, though."

Sam shrugged. "I've been away."

The barman gave a nod and continued wiping down the bar, clearly knowing better than to pry any further.

Sam cleared his throat. "So, is he around, then?" His casual tone sounded painfully false to my ears, but the barman seemed not to notice.

"Nah, 'fraid not. He's away, like." He leaned a little closer to Sam, adopting a conspiratorial air. "On business, you know."

"Do you know when he'll be back?" Tyler asked all too sharply, letting his eagerness show.

Sure enough, the barman pulled back, turning to the pumps, but after drawing a pint he seemed to relent a little. He placed the glass in front of Tyler, saying "On the house. And when he gets back I'll tell Mr. Warren that you were in." With that, he moved away.

Tyler stayed there, toying with his beer, and I could see the slight slump of his shoulders but whether that was in disappointment or relief I didn't know.

We loitered there an hour and a pint longer, but the only person to slip through the 'Private' door was the barman, and of the few patrons who came in none seemed to recognise Tyler - or me, for that matter.

Eventually, Sam finished the drink he'd been nursing and slid off his stool, giving the barman a wave as he made his way out. I'd intended sticking around a while longer, partly to see if anything else happened that evening, and partly to delay the fight I was intending to have with Tyler. Not that I wasn't looking forward to giving him what-for, but cooling off for a couple of hours might make me less likely to kill him. The sight of the barman abruptly disappearing through the 'Private' door made my ears prick up, but it was the three blokes who came back out that made me drastically re-think my plans.

I heard a muttered exchange as they passed me - their voices were low but it didn't sound like English - then they hurried out in Tyler's wake. Standing, I followed them out as swiftly as I could without drawing attention to myself. Once out on the street I glanced around, scenting trouble like a hound on the trail of a particularly large and smelly rat. I spotted them a couple of hundred yards away, their backs disappearing around a corner. If Tyler hadn't had the sense to spot them and scarper, then by my reckoning they must have just about caught up with him.

I broke into a run. As I turned the corner into the mouth of an alley I took a split second to try to make sense of the scene in front of me: they had Tyler cornered, all right, but one of the goons was rolling on the ground, a knife lying next to him, and Sam was holding the other two at bay, fists and feet flying in smooth practised moves, his speed and accuracy giving him the advantage over their bulk – at least for the time being. They were closing in, clearly intent on grappling him to the ground, at which point it would be all over. So I sidled up behind the nearest one and coshed him over the head. All right, so it's not exactly Queensbury Rules, but then neither is three against one, so I wasn't going to be losing any sleep over it.

Sam kicked the feet out from under his opponent, jabbing a punch to the side of his head as he went down, and the thug dropped like a sack of potatoes.

I grabbed Sam's arm and dragged him back to the car before they could rally for round two.

 

***

 

Tyler was silent and tense as I drove us back to his flat, rubbing at his knuckles absentmindedly. I wanted to ask him where the hell he'd learnt to fight like that, but I was so bloody annoyed at his interference that I couldn't bring myself to speak to him in the close confines of the car.

So, I waited until we were both indoors before I rounded on him.

"What the _hell_ were you doing there?"

Still breathing heavily, Sam stripped off his jacket in a violent, jerky movement and flung it across the room.

"I was trying to make some headway! It's been over a week and I still know nothing!"

I dumped my own coat over a chair, turning to face him squarely. "If you think I'm incompetent then bloody well fire me, otherwise stay out of my way!"

His lips curled in a humourless smile. "Oh no; you're not incompetent. You're actually quite smart – if only you'd get up off your arse and put the bottle down long enough to do some work!"

"I've done loads of work on your case, you self-righteous arsehole! And I'd have done a lot more if I didn't trip over _you_ every time I turned round!" I took a step closer to him, meeting his fiery glare. "I don't know what makes you think you know best, seeing as how you don't even know who you are, because from where I'm standing you're nothing but an annoying, poncy little tosser!"

This time I was ready for it. I caught his fist scant inches from my jaw and held it tightly, giving him my best rabid-dog grin.

"You only get one free shot at me, sunshine, and you've already used yours up."

I landed a nice solid punch to his gut and he doubled up, staggering back a couple of paces. But he recovered quickly, raising his fists, and then we went at it in earnest.

Tyler was fast all right, but I'd seen him in that alley and knew my best chance was to move in and grapple him where strength would count for more than speed. We traded a few blows and then I managed to get a grip on his arm and we lurched about, careening off the walls and sending the furniture flying. I'd just got his arm pinned behind his back when he twisted, throwing me off balance. My knee buckled and I went down, taking him with me.

We thrashed about on the floor for a bit, but I was losing my will to fight and judging by Sam's decreasing struggles, so was he. After a final roll around we came to a stop, both breathing heavily. I was on my back with Tyler on top of me; I still had one of his arms trapped behind him, while his other forearm was pressed across my throat – evidently neither of us wanted to be the first to concede defeat by letting go.

I gasped a bit, trying to suck air into my lungs and Sam shifted, but instead of pulling away he pushed himself closer, relaxing against me to relieve the pressure on his twisted arm.

His breath was hot against my cheek and the smell of his stupid coconut shampoo washed over me and something turned over in my gut. Squeezing my eyes shut didn't seem to help

_—the sun has long since set but the residual heat from the sand radiates through my back and the aroma of the oil, slick between us, is heavy in the night air. I'm panting, revelling in the scent of sweat, salt and coconut—_

so I snapped them open to see brown eyes -_ not blue, of course not blue_ \- close to mine. Far too close, in every sense.

With a surge, I shoved Tyler off and got to my feet, grabbed my coat and left before he could see that my hands were shaking. I managed to get half way home before I had to pull over to be sick in the gutter.

That's what a gutful of cheap beer does to you.

 

***

 

I drove the rest of the way home slowly, then set about getting completely and utterly rat-arsed.

See, the thing about someone telling me that I drink too much is that it makes me all the more thirsty. So what if Tyler didn't like it: my appreciation of the odd tipple now and again was none of his damn business. Yes, I could use his money. But I'd had enough of the annoying little gobshite and his smart-arsed attitude and tomorrow I would tell him he could take his job and stick it where the sun didn't shine. Then I wouldn't need to think about him anymore. Not him, or how he might be involved with Warren, or where his bloody car was or the gun and the money in his toilet cistern or his stupid brown eyes or coconut oil or skin tasting of sweat and salt and seawater and eyes the shade of the Cypriot sky

 

***

 

At some point, I must have passed out.

 

***

 

The hammering noise that woke me turned out to be inside my head.

Groggily I came to, and found myself sprawled in my armchair, still in my clothes from the night before. I thought about trying to move but decided that mastering the ability to focus my eyes probably came first.

It was around then that I realised the blurry shape in front of me was speaking.

"Guv? Are you all right? Look, try to sit up and have some of this tea – you'll feel better."

I managed to form words around the lumpy slug in my mouth.

"Why? Is it magic tea?" My voice came out thick and croaky.

"What's the matter with you…?" Annie shifted and I heard the noise of empty bottles clinking together. "Oh, _Gene_ – how much did you have last night?"

My eyelids were very heavy so I let them fall closed. "Not enough, if you're still 'ere."

"But what's wrong? Has something happened?"

"Leave it alone, Cartwright."

There was a pause, and for a moment I thought she had gone. But no.

"It's after ten. Aren't you going to get ready and come to work?"

"No, I'm bloody not. Now piss off and leave me to suffer in peace!"

Another pause.

"Is it about Sam...?"

"Forget about bloody Sam Tyler, love; I have."

"What do you mean? Has his memory come back? Guv?"

"Stop it! Just stop it! 'm not anyone's Guv, not anymore...Not for a long time..."

"Oh, not this again. Guv, that was all over ages ago. It wasn't your fault—"

"For Christ's sake, Annie, give it a rest!"

Raising my voice had been a mistake if the renewed pounding was anything to go by, and I think I was shaking my head but it was hard to tell, what with the constant spinning and the fact I had my eyes shut – I didn't want to see the expression on her face.

"Look, everyone knows you were set up by someone; someone with a grudge—"

"Mebbe so, but I'm guilty as sin..."

"What? Gene, what are you talking about? You were innocent..."

There was nothing remotely funny, but I was laughing anyway.

"That time. But not all the other times...Can't do the job without being on the take; 's all just checks and balances..."

"_Gene_...please don't do this..."

"Jus' fuck off, will you!!"

A choked sob reached my ears before it was cut off by the slam of my door, then silence.

Perfect.

 

***

 

Or at least it would have been, had I been able to lapse back into blessed unconsciousness. Instead I slumped in my armchair feeling sick - and not just from the booze.

I knew it was wrong to yell at Annie, even as I'd been doing it. None of this was her fault; it was mine. It was all mine. Not just because of the job I'd lost, but the mistakes I'd made and the decisions I'd taken. They were all there, the memories; dancing at the edges of my blurred vision, replaying themselves like a scratchy old newsreel.

For the first time in longer than I could recall, I let them come...

 

...If Vera had noticed that something was different when I came back from National Service, she never mentioned it. I think she suspected that there had been another woman but she didn't ask, for which I was grateful. I didn't want to lie but I couldn't tell the truth.

Not to her, not to anyone.

Ever.

Not unless I wanted to wave goodbye to any chance of a normal life that I might have.

So I never told a soul.

But despite my best efforts to bury the past, I had never forgotten. The heat and the dust and the sand, and the relief of cold seawater after a hard day on exercises. Dark hair falling carelessly over blue eyes crinkled with humour; skin slick with sun oil and crusted with salt.

And that last night, before I was shipped home, as I stood shaking in front of the mirror, unable to understand why I looked no different when everything had changed; knowing, even as I washed off the sand and the oil along with the imprint of his body, that I would never be the same again.

Three months later I was married and a year after that he was dead. His parachute had failed to open. A tragic accident, they said.

Tragic. And stupid.

Stupid to fall in love when I had been engaged to someone else; even more stupid to fall in love with another man. There had been no hope for it; no future together. The best thing – the only thing - was to forget it had ever happened.

Marry Vera, join the Force, and forget about him.

I suppose two out of three isn't bad.

 

***


	8. Chapter 8

I sat there for an hour or so, sipping at the horribly cold tea, until I started to feel that I might actually be able to face getting myself cleaned up and the churning in my stomach had shifted from sickness to hunger, which was probably a step in the right direction.

Slowly, I got to my feet and surveyed the mess. There was a worse-than-usual scatter of clothes and dirty dishes, with an added decoration of at least three empty bottles - though I didn't think they'd all been full to begin with.

I had just stacked the mugs and plates in the sink when there was a knock at my door. My shoulders slumped. I was feeling a little better but I wasn't sure that I could face Annie just yet.

"It's me."

Tyler.

"I know you're in there. Can I come in?"

I was already opening the door to him as he added "I've brought food."

The unmistakable aroma of bacon wafted up from the paper bag he was holding. He winced slightly when he saw me, but his eyes were gentle.

Sam stepped over the threshold, handing me a greaseproof paper parcel, and we shuffled around awkwardly, my flat suddenly seeming too small, him going to lean against the wall next to the window and me standing by my table as I unwrapped my sarnie and began to eat.

"You stupid bastard," he said, in a resigned sort of a way.

"If you've come to mock the afflicted, you needn't bother. The afflicted are feeling quite bad enough as it is." I replied, giving the lie to my words by tucking in heartily.

He snorted. "Actually, I came to apologise – though God knows why I thought _I_ should be apologising to _you_."

"Guess your mam must have brought you up with good manners."

"Which is more than can be said for you, you great oaf."

I fixed him with a bleary eye. "Look, I'm grateful for the food, but the abuse is giving me indigestion."

He pressed his lips together in a thin line and glanced out of the window, pausing for a moment before he continued.

"Do you have any idea how much you've upset Annie?"

Abruptly, the food turned to ashes in my mouth. I moved away, going to sit on my bed, but the annoying bugger followed me.

"She really loves you, you know."

I sighed, wondering when, exactly, I'd started to feel the urge to explain myself to him. "I know. It's just that sometimes..." I tailed off, running my hand through my hair. "There's things I've done, Sam, that I'm not proud of. And she doesn't know the half of it."

"And you think it might change how she sees you?"

I abandoned the buttie on the bedside table and Sam took a seat next to me, the pressure of his arm warm against mine as the mattress dipped under his weight.

"She told me about her dad." He said softly. "That you were the only person who believed her and her mum that he hadn't killed himself. And you got him, didn't you; her dad's partner?"

I nodded, remembering back. Thomas Cartwright had been a decent bloke; a quiet and unassuming accountant running his own small firm. But his partner, Jenkins, was a different kettle of fish. He was an accountant, too; but where Cartwright was studious and shy, his partner was a smooth-talking salesman, all brylcreem and flash suits. Even so, he'd been a long-standing friend of their family. Which made it all the harder when I had to break it to Annie and Jean that Jenkins had been defrauding their clients and had killed Annie's dad when he'd found out, staging Thomas's suicide to point the blame at him. The slimy bastard had covered his tracks well – but he was no match for the Gene Genie.

I gave a shrug. It was over ten years ago. A whole lifetime ago.

"Yeah, well. There's been a lot of crap since," I mumbled.

"The way I see it," Sam said slowly, "is that people – even good people - make mistakes. And, when it comes down to it, you can't change what's happened in the past..."

He turned and I could feel his eyes on me, heavy with understanding, as though they were boring a path through my skin to my very core.

"...but you can choose what you do from now on."

 

***

 

Two hours later, I was feeling almost human once more. Tyler had made me a fresh mug of tea and left me to get cleaned up, saying he'd see me in the evening to go over his case.

I got rid of the empties and washed the dishes, and even bagged up the worst of my clothes to go to the service wash.

I won't say that I felt _good_ by the time I made it downstairs, but I did feel a lot better. It's amazing what a bath and some (mostly) clean clothes can do for a man. If only it could have made me feel less of a heel, as well.

Annie had the accounts books spread out in front of her and she looked up as I walked in. Her eyes were red and her mouth tightened into a line as she caught sight of me.

"Seems I've got some apologising to do." I took a seat in front of her desk, feeling like a little kiddie going in to see the headmistress. But as I looked at her face, seeing the slight tremble of her jaw, I knew she was nothing like that old battleaxe Mrs. Harding; this was Annie. My Annie. Clever and funny and kind - and I'd been an utter bastard.

"I'm sorry, Annie. I'm really, really sorry."

She glanced down at her hands and let out a breath, and I ploughed on, leaning forward to rest my arms on the desk.

"I know you were only trying to help and I didn't mean to shout at you."

"I know." Her eyes looked suspiciously bright but her voice was steady. "Freudian projection: you're not angry with me, you're angry with yourself."

I could only nod.

"Doesn't mean it hurts any less, though," Annie said, a sharper edge to her words.

I nodded again. "Sorry I took it out on you."

We both fell silent, then Annie's hand came to rest gently on mine.

"It wasn't just about Sam, was it?"

"No."

"You still feel guilty about taking back-handers?"

Finally allowing myself to think about the past had brought a strange sense of relief, but I wasn't sure I'd ever feel like talking about it. After a moment I settled for saying: "Among other things." I turned my hand palm-up, meeting hers. "I'm no angel, Annie."

"No." Annie sighed and her expression softened. "You're only human. Just like the rest of us."

And I squeezed her hand in mine.

 

***

 

In the evening I headed round to Tyler's flat as arranged. The day had been a write-off in terms of useful work, but seeing as how he was still footing the bill the least I could do was to turn up and talk things through with him when he asked me to.

He greeted me with a mug of tea and a wryly raised eyebrow.

"Well, you look marginally less shit than you did earlier."

I snorted, canting him a sideways look. "You say the nicest things."

That got an outright laugh and I felt unaccountably warmed. Maybe it was the tea.

We sat on the sofa, side by side, and Sam recounted the conversation he had with the barman at _The Den_. His version was accurate and detailed in its retelling, and once again I found myself thinking about his past.

I cleared my throat. "So, the barman recognised you - did you recognise him?"

Sam wrinkled his nose in concentration. "Not really," he said. "I didn't recognise the guys who jumped me, either."

"Neither did I – and I've seen most of Warren's bully boys. And they weren't the same fellas that gave me a going-over the other night." I paused for more tea, wondering just how much trouble we were in. "The barman alerted them as soon as you'd left the place – they obviously wanted to take it all outside, away from the club."

"At least one of them had a knife."

I grunted. "Probably worried that a stabbing on the dancefloor would raise the tone of the place."

We fell silent for a moment, then Sam turned towards me. "Thanks," he said quietly. "For coming to my rescue."

Keeping my gaze fixed on my mug, I gave a short laugh. "You seemed to be doing just fine on your own."

"I couldn't have held them off for long; I owe you one." And I felt the touch of his hand on my wrist, so light that at first I thought I was imagining it. Raising my eyes to meet his, I could see gratitude and sadness there, and a glimpse of something else, like the silvery flash of fish scales below the still surface of a pond.

I wanted to say something to break the strange tension but was too afraid of what might come out of my mouth so I sat there like an idiot, still clutching my rapidly cooling tea, and tried desperately not to think about what his eyes looked like.

After what seemed like an age, I finally pulled my wits together. "So," I asked, my voice sounding oddly rusty, "what's for dinner?"

He blinked and then a huge grin split his face, making him look unfeasibly young. "Lasagne." He released my wrist and stood in a fluid, feline movement. "It's nearly done."

I took a seat at his small dining table and we ate in a comfortable silence. It was good, despite the funny herbs; and when Sam had the cheek to pour me a glass of Lucozade, daring me with cocked eyebrow to complain, I simply raised it in a toast and drank it down in one. I gave a loud belch and Sam rolled his eyes, pushing away his empty plate.

"I had a walk around the streets today," he said, "to have a look for my car."

"Any luck?" I asked around a mouthful of second helpings.

He shook his head. "I looked all around here, and the area where the mill is, but nothing."

Licking a last smear of sauce off my knife, I gave a non-committal grunt. "Well, it was a bit like looking for a grain of sand in the desert." I sat back, feeling comfortably satisfied. "Did you remember anything else?"

He gave a sigh, running a hand through his stupidly short hair. "No. But I've been thinking…" His eyes slid up to mine, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

"So have I." I took a deep breath. "You're a copper, aren't you?"

There was no sign of surprise in his face as he slowly nodded. "I think so, yes. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"All right then. Let's assume that's true. What d'you think happened?"

"I think I must have been working an undercover job. Investigating Stephen Warren seems likely, from what you've told me about his involvement in organised crime."

"And how do you explain what happened at the mill?"

"I could have been following some of his contacts; spying on a meeting of some sort...I think I witnessed the shooting and fled the scene. Someone spotted me and gave chase."

"And the blokes who went after you last night?"

"Well, maybe Warren sent them after me..."

"What, because you saw something you shouldn't have?"

"Yes. Or maybe he found out I was undercover."

If Tyler was half as bright as I thought he was then there were other possibilities he must have come up with, so I waited to see if he was going to mention them.

Sam raised his chin, appearing to steel himself. "Or...I could be up to my neck in it. Corrupt copper, through and through. I could be in on it all. In bed with Warren - so to speak."

He'd attempted a wry smile but it didn't really work with the sudden pallor of his skin. He was right, of course; it was a possibility and I knew it, even as I mulled over his interesting choice of words.

Sam forced himself on. "Maybe I was part of that business deal and it was me who pulled the trigger that night, and the amnesia is just a psychological reaction to having killed someone in cold blood. Post traumatic stress; false memory syndrome, maybe." He spoke the last in an undertone, almost to himself, his brow furrowing.

"I think you've been reading too many of Annie's books," I told him, but he was staring at the table, lost in thought. Something in his expression made me think of a little boy trying to work out how he'd ended up in detention, and I gave a laugh despite myself. He looked up and scowled at me, but it only served to strengthen the impression.

He crossed his arms in annoyance. "What?"

I cocked my head to one side. "Just wondering why you're so willing to see the best in me but believe the worst about yourself. I bet Annie has a theory about that."

His scowl dissolved into something approaching a smile, albeit with a sardonic twist. "I'm sure she does. But what's yours?"

"No theory; just gut instinct."

Sam unfolded his arms and leaned forward over the table. "So, what does your not-insubstantial gut tell you?" This time there was a definite glint of humour in his eyes.

"That you're a cheeky bugger. But you're not a villain, Sam." I said it with all the conviction I could muster – although I wasn't sure which one of us I was trying to convince.

He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a knock at the door. We stared at each other like startled rabbits caught in a car's headlights. The knock came again, finally spurring us both into action. I braced myself against the wall while Tyler positioned himself behind the door before cautiously inching it open.

"Sam!" I couldn't see the owner of the voice from my vantage point, but she was definitely female.

Tyler seemed frozen in place, his face a picture of confusion and surprise, then the door was being pushed open and a young woman with long dark hair flung herself into his arms.

 

***

 

To his credit, Sam managed to stay calm despite his surprise; and to mine, I managed to squash the urge to yank her away from him.

"Sam, I was so worried about you!" she was saying into his shoulder.

I slammed the door shut, making her jump back a little, and she caught sight of me for the first time. She gave me a quick, narrow-eyed once-over then turned back to Tyler, sliding her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his.

He wasn't reacting much but she was making the most of it, I'll give her that.

After a moment or two of this shenanigans I cleared my throat loudly. "Aren't you going to introduce me?" I asked. She seemed vaguely familiar, but couldn't quite place her.

Sam gently disengaged, easing her away to arms length. He'd gone a bit pale, but that could have been because all his blood had rushed south. She was a looker, all right; the curves of her body clearly visible through the tight-fitting clothes she wore, although her face had a hardness to it that spoiled the overall effect.

"Er..." he managed. Blimey, that snog must have been good.

"Sam, what's the matter? Don't you remember me? It's Joni. Your Joni..." she peered at him – as did I – but there was only confusion written across his features. "Oh, poor baby..." she crooned, twining around him again, one hand running through his hair.

Joni...ah, yes. That set off the light bulb of recognition: Joni Newton. Professional dancer and good-time girl (and every sordid thing that entailed) working for Stephen Warren. I swallowed, trying to get rid of the bitter taste of bile at the back of my throat as Joni kissed Sam again, more fully this time.

I was waiting for some sort of reaction from Tyler but he seemed pliant, if unresponsive, in her arms and I decided I'd seen enough.

Maybe she was lying. Maybe it was all a put-up job and he'd never met her before. Maybe if I hung around I'd be treated to the sort of floorshow you normally have to pay good money for.

Maybe; but I wasn't going to stick around to find out.

"Seems I've outstayed my welcome," I growled, reaching for my coat.

Sam took hold of her shoulders but whether to hug her or push her away, I couldn't tell. His eyes locked onto mine but at that point I wasn't really interested in anything he had to say – or who he might be sleeping with.

The last view I got before banging the door shut behind me was of Joni hanging off him like a cheap suit.

 

***


	9. Chapter 9

It was none of my business.

That's what I told myself as I walked home through the fine drizzle. Tyler's sex life was none of my business. Except that it _was_ because it might have a bearing on the case – especially if he'd been undercover.

Coppers would do all sorts to keep their cover. I didn't know Tyler, and I didn't know how far he would go on a case, but he certainly wouldn't be the first copper to have had sex with a suspect or a witness.

Letting myself in the front door, I locked it behind me and climbed the stairs to my flat.

Of course, he could have been using Joni to get to Warren. But then the barman at _The Den_ had implied that Sam himself was close to Warren...

I hung my coat on the hook and paced the floor, feeling restless.

Then there was the more obvious solution: Sam was rotten to the core. After all, Ray's check hadn't found a copper with that name in Manchester or Lancashire.

Ugly possibilities were raising their heads and I stopped pacing in order to have a good hard look at them.

Was someone really trying to kill Tyler, or was this a falling-out between rival gangs? Could he have been working for one of Warren's competitors? Was he...

I shook my head, banishing the more lurid of my theories. This wasn't achieving anything other than giving me a huge headache. The excesses of last night – and early this morning - were starting to catch up with me. My brain was too fogged to exert my usual razor-sharp deductive powers but too restless to give in to the appeal of my unmade bed.

It was still early. The half-empty scotch bottle on the table was twinkling at me but it and its friends had done quite enough damage last night so I ignored it in favour of a couple of aspirin and a leisurely smoke. I lowered myself into my armchair, mindlessly leafing through an old newspaper while the tablets did their job. The crossword was only half-finished so I concentrated on that, managing, at least for a while, to occupy my mind with something other than Sam bloody Tyler.

A few fags later I was stuck on the final clue and contemplating giving in to sleep when there was a knock at the door of my flat. With a resigned sigh, I heaved myself up and went to open it. I never had asked Sam how he got in the front door downstairs, but having seen him at work at the mill I could well imagine. The lock on my flat probably wouldn't slow him down much, either, but he was just the sort of nancy-boy git who knocks out of politeness.

"Thought you'd be getting yourself reacquainted with the pleasures of the female form round about now." I held the door open anyway, and Tyler shot me a narrow-eyed look as he stepped past me into the flat.

"Well you thought wrong." He dropped the small holdall he was carrying and folded his arms defensively. I waited, but he didn't say anything more, just stood there looking annoyed and awkward and tired and ever so slightly twitchy. There was a smudge of lipstick in the corner of his mouth. Turning away, I poured us both a tumbler of scotch and, as though finding his voice was easier once my eyes were off him, he started to speak, the words coming out in a rush.

"Look, I'm sorry, and I know it's late, but I didn't think it was a good idea staying in my flat when they know where I live."

"Who do?" I turned and handed him a glass.

Sam took it, but gave a little frustrated shake of his head. "Whoever sent Joni - Warren, I assume."

"What makes you think she didn't come to see you of her own accord?"

Another shake of the head, more vehement this time, and he took a large swig of scotch. I resisted the temptation to grab his shoulders and shake the words out of him.

"Just...her story didn't sound right."

"Blimey, did she get her tongue out of your mouth long enough to talk? All right, then, go on, what did she say?"

"That she knew me-"

I snorted. "I could have told you that, Einstein."

"- knew me from the club. That she works there, and met me because I'd been working for Stephen Warren, and so we'd...Anyway, she said she hadn't seen me around for weeks and was worried." He frowned. "But then she started asking me questions, about where I'd been, what I'd been doing...like she was trying to find out what I knew...what I could remember."

He downed the rest of his scotch with a wince and I refilled his glass without comment.

"I asked why she hadn't come round to find me sooner," he continued, "and she said that we were seeing each other secretly because Mr. Warren didn't like his staff getting involved with each other...but then she heard that I'd had some sort of accident and so she had to come..."

"Did she tell you how she found that out?" I asked sharply.

He shook his head, swallowing another mouthful of scotch. "She was...evasive. Upset and very...physical. You know. Demonstrative."

Trying not to let the bitterness show, I simply raised an inquiring eyebrow.

He blinked at the unasked question. "So I calmed her down a bit, that's all. Told her I didn't remember anything and was still recovering from the accident, and got rid of her as quickly as I could."

I gave a grunt. "What now, then, Sherlock?"

Sam followed my gaze as it dropped to the bag at his feet. "Oh. I'm going to find a hotel for tonight. We can plan our next step in the morning."

He might have been overreacting, but given recent events, I couldn't blame him: Joni turning up at his flat the day after his visit to _The Den_ was unlikely to be a coincidence. I gave an indifferent shrug.

"You may as well stay here; it's safer than any hotel that'll open their doors to you at this time of night."

He didn't say anything, just gave a short nod, but the lines of tension in his face eased a little.

"So..." I took a breath. "Did you remember her?"

"Not really. Just a vague impression, maybe."

"D'you think you were banging her, then?" I asked bluntly.

Sam's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "The other night you were accusing me of having fathered another man's child, and now you think I'm having an affair with a club dancer?" He was trying to sound indignant but I could tell his heart wasn't in it.

"Not sure 'affair' is the term I'd use; you could be paying her for it, for all I know. Or for all _you_ know, for that matter."

He fell silent, staring into his glass as he gave the amber liquid a swirl. I took a mouthful of my scotch, savouring the smokiness for a moment before I continued.

"So, her being all over you like a rash - you think that was just to get information out of you?"

He nodded, still seeming lost in thought.

With a snort, I squinted over at him. "Or it could be that women just find you irresistible."

He gave a humourless laugh. "Well, that would be ironic," he muttered, shooting me a brief but oddly loaded glance before returning to study the contents of his glass, "Given that my tastes run more to the male of the species." He swallowed the remainder and I blinked at him, unsure that I'd heard that right.

"You're telling me that you're queer?" I asked carefully.

He gave a long, heartfelt sigh before replying.

"Uphill gardener. Pillow-biter. Mattress-muncher. Fruit-picking sodomite..." He had turned to face me as he reeled off the terms and met my gaze squarely, the hint of a tired, wry smile around his mouth. "Yes, I'm queer."

I narrowed my eyes. "How do you know, seeing as how you've lost your memory?"

He shrugged. "Same way I know I prefer Marmite to jam and red wine to white."

My guts lurched strangely. I set my own glass down on the table, reaching out to refill his instead as a way of keeping busy while I thought through my next words.

"So...you haven't been flirting with Annie?" My voice sounded oddly calm and distant.

Sam peered at me, then his look of confusion turned to amused exasperation.

"No, you bloody great idiot." He stepped closer, taking the bottle from my hand and standing it safely out of the way along with his own glass. "I've been flirting with _you_."

 

***

 

For a while after that, things were rather blurred.

Events seemed to collapse together like the colours in one of those kiddies' kaleidoscopes. None of it made sense; a confusion of clothing and limbs and furniture which seemed to have moved about of its own accord. But in amongst the rushing sensations stark images would stay with me, like snapshots scattered across my desk.

Sam's hands in my hair.

The ridge of his collarbone under my teeth.

The bloom of pain in my ribs as we slid to the floor.

The rasp of his stubble against my skin.

 

***

I don't remember dozing off, but when I opened my eyes it was dark and quiet. At some point I'd made it into bed, naked, and the sheets were tangled around my legs. I rolled onto my side; the space next to me was barely warm.

Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, silent and unmoving. His pale form was a blurred patchwork of shadows, the mottled bruises on his flank showing as darker splotches of grey on grey.

He didn't move, but after a moment or two he spoke in a low tone.

"Sometimes, none of this feels real. Not my flat, not my things, nothing. Not even me."

I remembered Bertie Gowland spending his days staring into space as he grew thinner and thinner, and I said nothing.

"Sometimes, I think if I close my eyes this might all disappear." There was a gleam of reflected light as Sam turned to look at me. "Or _I_ might."

I found my voice. "You're real, Sam."

"Am I?" Desperation sounded barely contained beneath his brittle veneer.

"As real as I am."

I heard him make a choked-off noise.

"Here." I reached for him in the darkness. "Come here, Sam."

And if my voice was gentler than I'd intended, well, maybe that was no bad thing.

 

***

 

This time when hammering woke me it turned out to be the sound of my front door being battered down.

By the time I had made it over to the window and spotted the cop cars outside in the pre-dawn gloom, Tyler had already wriggled into his trousers and was pulling on his boots.

I didn't know what they wanted, but it was a fair guess that it wasn't a nice chat over a cup of tea and a pink wafer. We exchanged a hurried glance at the sound of the front door crashing in.

"Go!" I hissed; then he had grabbed his jacket and bag and was out of the back window, silent as a wraith, before I had time to wonder how he knew it was the best escape route.

I scrabbled about, barely managing to drag on my own shirt and trousers before there was the pounding of heavy feet up the stairs. I strode to the door and flung it open, determined not to give them the satisfaction of smashing that one in, too.

"DCI Morgan. How delightful."

The man facing me was middle-aged but trim, with beady eyes and a carefully cultivated moustache that he probably wore to compensate for his balding pate. Even at this ungodly hour of the morning he looked neat and well-ironed, which only made me hate him all the more.

"If I'd known you were coming I'd have baked a cake." I stepped back before he could push past me, and flung my arm wide in a welcoming gesture. "Office hours don't start until 9 o'clock, but for you, Mr. Morgan, I'll make an exception."

"Mr. Hunt." Somehow, Morgan managed to make my name sound positively dirty. He gave me a dismissive glance as he stepped over the threshold and beckoned in a couple of his lads who started to poke around the place with all the skill and enthusiasm of kids searching for a hidden Curly Wurly.

"We're looking for your client: a Mr. Sam Tyler."

I raised an eyebrow.

"I doubt you'll find him in that chest of drawers." I pointed out pleasantly. "Why don't you try his flat?"

Morgan's eyes narrowed, but he didn't reply.

I shrugged and lowered myself into my armchair, adopting a casual air. "Suit yourself. What d'you want him for, anyway?"

"One of his neighbours reported a bit of a disturbance. Shouting and banging."

I tsked sympathetically. "Terrible. I just don't know what's wrong with people nowadays. But I can't see why a domestic disturbance would warrant the concern of your exalted self at such an early hour?"

His eyes seemed to glitter with a grim satisfaction. "It does when it leads to murder."

Even my best poker face may have slipped a little at that revelation, and Morgan tried to press his advantage.

"Joni Newton. Only twenty-five. Throat slit." He sniffed. "_Very_ messy."

My hand found the glass I had abandoned earlier and I took a slug of scotch, barely glancing at it.

The coppers were still rummaging around aimlessly and I thanked the Lord for my slovenly habits as I watched one of them kick aside Sam's shirt, unnoticed among the rest of my clothes littering the floor.

Morgan was eyeing me the way a cat eyes a caged canary that it can't quite reach.

"You wouldn't help a fugitive, would you, Hunt?"

"Certainly not," I replied evenly. "That would be illegal."

He smiled a cold, mirthless smile and leaned over me. "Because if you did, then I'd lock you up with him and throw away the key."

"Sounds lovely. Do we get maid service and a room with a view?"

Before he could reply, I slammed down my glass and got suddenly to my feet, making him take a step back. I'd had just about as much as I was willing to take for one night, so I strode past him to the front door and held it open pointedly.

Morgan made me wait, taking one last, long look around before making a gesture to his men that I took to mean they'd made enough of a mess and could all go home now. Then his lip curled as he took in the rumpled state of the bed.

"You going to tell me who the lucky lady was?"

"Nope." I waited with one hand on the door as the men filed out. Morgan was the last to leave and he paused as he stepped past, leaning closer.

"If the post mortem shows that Joni Newton had sex with someone recently then I'll be back, and I won't be taking 'nope' for an answer." His facial muscles didn't move but I could hear the sneer in his voice.

I rolled my eyes. "Well, at least get your story straight, Morgan. First you're saying Tyler killed her, and now it sounds like you're accusing me. Make your bloody mind up!"

He stepped back, all forced politeness once more. "If you hear from your client tell us immediately. Oh, and I want to interview you formally, so I'll see you in my office at nine o'clock sharp."

"I'll be there at ten." I bared my teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. "Gives me time to have a bit of a clear up after your boys." Forestalling any reply, I swung the door shut.

I waited a few minutes until they had all cleared out downstairs, then went down and wedged the front door shut as best as I could. Just in case anyone was watching the place, I made a big show of going through the office, switching on all the lights and checking around. They'd made a mess, all right, with files and papers strewn all over the floor, and I could only assume that Tyler's case-file was gone. Not that it mattered: Annie had been on at me for over a week to update it, so there wasn't much in there.

After I'd checked the windows and drawn the blinds, I went through the same rigmarole upstairs, taking the opportunity to have a careful look out of the back window, checking the view out over the flat roof and the fire escape and the empty back yard. Had Morgan thought to send someone round the back?

Either the police were getting sloppy, or Sam was very, very good.

 

***


	10. Chapter 10

"Let's try it again, shall we? With a bit more truth this time."

"You can try it as many times as you like, Morgan, but I'm not going to say anything different this time round." I tapped another fag out of the packet and lit it; the ashtray was already overflowing from the morning's interrogation, the air thick enough to cut with a knife.

I'd turned up at the police station just a shade after ten, having left Annie attempting to clear up at the office. The hours up until then had mostly been spent drinking strong tea, pacing my office and wondering what the hell was going on.

When I stopped to think about it, Tyler had seemed unsettled when he'd turned up the previous night - but not like he'd just slit a girl's throat and dashed round for a bit of nookie to take his mind off it. To be thorough, I checked his abandoned shirt. It was the same one he'd been wearing earlier in the evening and I lifted it to the light, then to my nose and inhaled carefully. Although there was a very faint smell of perfume clinging to it alongside the familiar coconut scent, there was no sign of blood. Either Tyler was the neatest murderer in history, or someone else had done Joni Newton in.

Just in case Morgan had got it into his head to come back for a more exhaustive search, I'd stripped the bed and dropped all my dirty laundry off at the service wash before I headed over to the cop shop. Maybe I should have included Sam's shirt, but after a moment's hesitation I'd hung it at the back of my wardrobe, instead. After all, it was evidence and I didn't know what cards I'd have to play before this was all over.

"So you're telling me you don't know who Sam Tyler is?"

"That's right."

"And you have no idea where he is now?"

"Not a clue. Though I've heard Frinton-on-Sea is nice this time of year."

Morgan eyed me sharply, evidently trying to decide whether I was being entirely flippant. He was sitting opposite me in Lost and Found, his arms folded as though he could sit there all day, composed as a bloody statue. A young detective who I'd recognised as Chris Skelton was sitting next to him, absorbed in taking what seemed to be laborious notes.

"You think he's done a runner? Has he mentioned anywhere he'd be likely to flee to?"

I shrugged. "No, he hasn't mentioned anywhere, but if he murdered some tart in his own flat he'd be mad to stick around, wouldn't he."

The irony was that while part of me hoped Tyler _had_ made a run for it, the other part of me was pretty sure that regardless of the question of guilt, Tyler was mad as a stoat and hadn't gone anywhere.

Morgan had been pushing me for the best part of three hours but I hadn't felt compelled to tell him anything more than he could read in my case-file. He had made the mistake of setting a tape recorder going at the beginning of the interview, so I knew he wasn't going to try strong-arming me – not that _that_ would get him anywhere, anyway. All I had to do was wait him out and hope that he got tired before I ran out of fags.

"What was Tyler's connection with Joni Newton?"

"Like I told you, I have no idea. He never mentioned her."

"She was a dancer at The Warren: Tyler ever mention the club or Stephen Warren?"

"Not to me."

Morgan narrowed his eyes. "Right then. Let's get down to the question of your alibi for last night."

Sitting back, I folded my arms. "No, let's not."

If the only way to get Tyler off was to admit he'd been with me, then I was prepared to tell the truth rather than see him go down (well, maybe not _all_ the truth, but enough to explain his whereabouts). But the problem with that was that there was a distinct possibility it would lead to us _both_ going down – and not in a good way. No, that was a last resort, because our best option was to find out who had really murdered Joni Newton, and I couldn't do that from inside a prison cell. Right now the best thing was to say nothing.

"It'd be better for you, Hunt, if you explain who you were with and what you were doing."

"You know," I said in a speculative tone, "I can't help feeling sorry for Mrs. Morgan if the only way you get your jollies is by hearing about other people's sex lives."

Chris made a suspicious snorting noise which he quickly turned into a cough.

"In any case," I continued, "although I'd love to help you collect stories for your Reader's Wives' letters..." I gave them a wink and lowered my voice, "...I'm afraid a gentleman never tells."

Morgan leaned forward, his lip curling into a sneer. "You know I'm serious about sending you down, don't you Hunt? You aren't telling me everything, which at the very least could make you an accessory to murder - if not an actual suspect."

I blew a lungful of smoke in his general direction. "You've got nothing to hold me on; you know it, I know it, even-" for the fun of it, I waved my fag in the young bloke's direction and he looked up with a nervous smile.

"Er, Chris," he supplied helpfully.

"Even er-Chris here knows it. So either charge me with something or let me go."

Morgan glared at me and I could swear I heard him grinding his teeth.

"You seem to be under the mistaken apprehension that you're in charge here, Hunt. But in case you've forgotten, you were slung out on your ear for having your fingers in the till so you're in no position to be making demands!"

I bit back a juicy comment about Morgan's mother that would have seen me banged up for the foreseeable future.

"And right now," he continued with gusto, "I'm thinking of arresting you for obstruction."

Stubbing out my fag, I leaned forward. "Then I want to see a lawyer."

Before Morgan could reply, another voice, rich and authoritative, cut across him. "I don't think there'll be any need for that." Harry Woolf strode into the room, Morgan visibly bristling at the interruption.

"Really, Frank, I think Mr. Hunt has been cooperating fully – haven't you, Gene?"

"Oh, absolutely, Harry."

"And you'll let us know if Tyler contacts you?"

"Of course. Always happy to help the boys in blue."

"Well, then, I think it's time we let Mr. Hunt go so that we can get on with chasing villains. What do you say, Frank?"

I had a fair idea what Morgan would like to have said to this, but he merely got to his feet and stabbed a finger at the tape recorder to switch it off.

"Right then." Harry gave me a slap on the back as I stood up. "I think it's knocking-off time, Gene."

 

***

 

We ended up with pints and a ploughman's each at the _Bedford Arms_, just a few streets from the station. I hadn't felt like eating but once it was in front of me I realised I was famished.

"Don't mind Morgan, Gene." Harry was saying. "He's a bit of a stickler for details but he's a good copper. Dedicated. Thorough."

Mouth full of cheddar, I grunted a reply.

"And this is a bad business. Joni Newton was no blushing virgin but that's a nasty way to go, throat slit in cold blood like that."

He paused and we both took long draughts of beer, the liquid easing the dryness of my throat after the morning's marathon smoking session.

"Were there any signs of breaking and entering?" I asked, lowering my pint.

Harry barked out a laugh. "What, you think she broke in then managed to slit her own throat?"

"Just wondered if there was any chance that it could have been someone else…"

Harry munched thoughtfully on an onion. "Do you mean _instead_ of Tyler, or that he might have had a partner?"

I gave a non-committal shrug.

"Well, there were signs of a struggle but nothing to suggest that anyone else was involved." Harry sat back in his seat, his eyes narrowing. "Do you have some reason for thinking that it wasn't Tyler, Gene?"

I was torn. I wanted to tell him that Sam had been with me but I couldn't expect Harry to keep that off the record for long, no matter how strong our friendship had once been.

"Just doesn't seem the type." I said finally.

"Hmm." Harry finished his last lump of bread and cheese before he continued. "Do you remember that case we worked on with that young nurse? What was her name – Maureen something. Donaldson, was it?"

"Donnelly," I supplied, remembering.

"Everyone said what a wonderful woman she was. A real angel, practically headed for an OBE or a sainthood or what-have-you; and she was so helpful to the police. Yet she'd killed those old ladies without batting an eye." Harry shook his head sadly. "Just goes to show that you never can tell."

I gazed into the depths of my pint and wondered if you ever really knew anyone. Harry's hand landed heavily on my shoulder, breaking my reverie.

"You said that Tyler hadn't remembered anything? Well, then, it's not your fault, Gene. There was no way you could have known he would do this."

I swallowed thickly. "Thing is, Harry, he _was_ starting to remember things – nothing clear, but it was beginning to look like he hadn't been run over by accident. And whoever had done it was still after him."

Harry leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I think you'd better start at the beginning. Exactly what did Tyler tell you?"

"He was shaky on some of the details, but he thought he witnessed a shooting that night: execution-style, bullet through the brain sort of shooting."

"Bloody hell. Who?"

"That was one of the things he couldn't remember. But it was in an old mill owned by Stephen Warren."

Harry stared at me, his eyes widening. "So Tyler _is_ mixed up with Warren...Good God, Gene, you should really have told me this sooner." His voice was reproving but I shook my head. I wasn't even sure I should be telling Harry this now.

"I know it looks bad for Tyler - worse than bad, at the moment - but I think he's innocent."

"The old gut instinct again, Gene?"

Wordless, I pushed away my half-eaten dinner, appetite suddenly lost. What could I say? I had no proof of anything, just the word of a man with a memory like Swiss cheese and a dead prossie decorating his flat. The odds weren't looking too good - for either of us.

Harry paused for a moment, then pressed on, his voice low and urgent. "Gene, if you know where Tyler is, or what he's been doing with Warren, you really do need to tell me now."

At least my conscience was clear when I shook my head. "That's about the lot, Harry. I don't know anything else."

He gave a grunt. "Well. There may be something else you think of that might help. Tell you what, why don't we meet up for a drink tonight, eh? I've been meaning to suggest it. Shouldn't really have left it so long since all that business with you leaving. Damn shame, that, Gene – you know I was opposed to it all, but the decision was out of my hands."

I shrugged. It was old news. "I know, Harry. I don't hold you to blame."

"Still, let me buy the drinks, eh? And you can tell me what else you know about Mr. Tyler, even if it doesn't seem relevant. After all, you never know-"

And I never did know, as he was cut off mid-flow by the arrival of Chris Skelton, out-of-breath, tripping over his feet and somewhat green around the gills.

"Superintendent Woolf, sir, there's a car been dredged up out of the canal."

Harry raised an eyebrow, managing to convey with that single movement that Chris's next words better warrant the interruption or he'd be spending the rest of the week mucking out the cells.

"S-sorry sir," Chris stammered, managing to look nervous as well as queasy. "It's just that it's Tyler's car..." He gulped in a breath. "And there's a body in it."

 

***


	11. Still Waters (Part 11 of 15)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be references to slash and het - if you really need to know more before reading then follow the lj cut to the spoilers on the [master list post](http://nepthys-uk.livejournal.com/12916.html).

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://nepthys-uk.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [lom](http://nepthys-uk.livejournal.com/tag/lom), [sam/gene](http://nepthys-uk.livejournal.com/tag/sam/gene)  
  
---|---  
  
_**LoM Fic: Still Waters, Brown Cortina, Part 11 of 15**_  
**Title:** Still Waters (Part 11 of 15)  
**Author:** nepthys_uk  
**Rating:** Brown Cortina (just to be on the safe side, to cover the entire thing)  
**Word Count:** approx.3,000 this part (approx 53,000 in total - good lord!) By far the longest thing I've ever attempted, it's all finished and I'll be posting a couple of times a week.  
**Disclaimer:** Belongs to Kudos and the BBC. This is just for fun, not for profit.  
**Notes:** There may be references to slash and het - if you really need to know more before reading then follow the lj cut to the spoilers on the [master list post](http://nepthys-uk.livejournal.com/12916.html).

Thanks go to [](http://dorsetgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**dorsetgirl**](http://dorsetgirl.livejournal.com/) for wielding the red beta pen; [](http://draycevixen.livejournal.com/profile)[**draycevixen**](http://draycevixen.livejournal.com/) for the advice on plotting and writing a long story; and [](http://fawsley.livejournal.com/profile)[**fawsley**](http://fawsley.livejournal.com/) for feedback, encouragement, and pink fizz-induced inspiration. You are all quite, quite marvellous ♥.

  
**Still Waters - Chapter 11**

 

It was only a few miles to the scene but the journey took an age. I sat in the front next to Harry, trying to look calm while my insides were churning like a twin tub on wash day.

It couldn't be Tyler. He'd been with me that morning, warm and alive (if a bit unhinged), and surely he couldn't be dead and gone...

But of course he could. As I knew all too well.

We left the car on some waste ground and headed in the direction of the small crowd at the water's edge. Morgan and Ray were there, and there were other coppers milling around the scene, plod directing people away, and an ambulance standing by with the back doors open. No need for a siren for this one.

Morgan's eyes narrowed when he saw me, but Harry forestalled him.

"Thought Mr. Hunt might be able to formally identify the body, Frank." He explained.

I thrust my hands into my overcoat pockets and watched with the others as the winch, having done its job, was manoeuvred away from a waterlogged car. It was a blue Rover 3500, and I recognised the licence number as Tyler's. Water was still running from it, dripping black and greasy onto the ground and forming streams which wound their way back across the towpath into the canal. The boot was open, one copper poking gingerly inside, a hanky held over his mouth, the reek of decomposition hanging thick and heavy in the air.

"It's definitely Tyler's car." Morgan was saying.

Through the people coming and going, I caught sight of a shape laid out on the ground nearby. A body, covered by a tarpaulin.

"And we already have a formal ID on the body..."

Black water trickled in tiny rivulets from under the tarp.

"...it's Stephen Warren. Or what's left of him."

Relief flooded through me, weakening my knees, and I found myself suddenly awash in a cold sweat and fighting to keep my dinner down. I took a nip from my hipflask, grateful for the warmth of the scotch spreading through my innards, and the blackness at the edges of my vision gradually receded.

Morgan was droning on and I forced myself to listen.

"...shot and stuffed in the boot. Been down there a few weeks by the look of things."

"Bloody hell. How can we have not known that Stephen Warren was missing all that time?" Harry demanded.

"The word was that he was away on business." Ray chipped in. "Doing some deal down south."

"Looks like his last deal _went_ south."

"This pretty much puts the nail in the coffin for your Mr. Tyler." I realised that Morgan had directed this last comment to me, so I turned to face him, schooling my features into a blank expression.

"Kills Warren, then gets into some sort of accident where he loses his memory, then kills the Newton girl because she knows about it all. Dear oh dear."

I couldn't fault his logic; it was his gleeful tone that I really objected to.

"Right." Harry's voice was decisive and authoritative. "I want Tyler behind bars before he feels the urge to do away with anyone else. All your men on it, Morgan-"

"They already are, sir."

"- alert neighbouring forces, and talk to the press – careful, mind you, I don't want the public panicking. If we don't have a photograph of Tyler, get a photo-fit picture out to them. I want this one, lads."

Ray shot me a brief, sympathetic glance before they dispersed, Morgan barking out further instructions as they went. Harry's expression was grim but his hand was gentle as it came to rest on my shoulder.

"Looks like your gut instinct has let you down this time, Gene."

A few blokes were gathered around the tarpaulin, getting ready to move the body. I looked away, letting out a long breath.

"Well, like you said, Harry: you never can tell."

 

***

 

When I got back to the office the first thing I did after spotting the two blokes parked outside in a Morris Minor, sticking out like a bleedin' sore thumb, was to dismantle each of the office phones in turn, checking that Morgan's lads hadn't tapped them. Satisfied, I screwed the mouthpieces back in place as Annie watched me in stunned silence.

I didn't relish having to break the latest news to her but she listened steadily, only the paleness of her face giving away her sense of shock at the events of the day. I'd already told her about Sam's late night visit (well, the edited version at any rate) and about the untimely arrival of the rozzers, but her eyes widened as she heard about Sam's car and the rather pungent surprise waiting for us in the boot.

"Could he have done those things?" she said at last, her voice sounding low and rough.

I wished that I could reassure her, but she wasn't a child anymore. "I don't know, love."

The office had been mostly cleared up although there were a few piles of paper that she hadn't finished sorting through yet stacked neatly on her desk, so we settled in my office nursing mugs of strong, sweet tea. I was tempted to have another belt of scotch but I was afraid that if I started I wouldn't stop.

"But...it's not conclusive, is it? I mean, the evidence against Sam?"

"No. It's circumstantial. But Morgan thinks it's a good enough fit to put him away." I put down my mug and rummaged for my fags. "And if I were still doing his job, I'd agree with him."

Lighting a cigarette I inhaled deeply, trying to get rid of the stench of stagnant water and decay that seemed to linger at the back of my throat.

"What do you think happened to Sam?"

I gave a tired shrug. "Maybe he did do it. Maybe he's a corrupt copper, or maybe he's just another of Warren's associates who wanted a bigger slice of the pie." In which case, he'd been playing me like a ruddy violin. I pushed the thought away.

"What if...what if it was in self-defence? If Stephen Warren was threatening him, maybe..." Annie trailed off, unwilling to voice her fears.

I'd been wondering about that myself. Sam was a little older than Warren's usual fare but otherwise just the sort he would go for, and Warren would have had no qualms about taking what he wanted. Either by force, or maybe as a condition of whatever business deal they were setting up. I took another long drag, relishing the burn in my lungs, and tried not to think about Tyler's pale skin and the mottling of bruises I'd left on it.

"And you said you were sure he didn't kill that girl," Annie persisted. "Sam was probably with you when it happened, but even if she was killed before he got here, you said yourself that there was no sign of blood on him."

"I know. And that's why I think he's innocent. Well, maybe not _entirely_ innocent– we still don't know what his connection was to Warren - but not a murderer, at any rate."

"I wonder where he is now."

"Costa del Sol, if he's got any sense."

But Annie shook her head, slow but sure. "I don't think so. Sam's determined and persistent. I think he'll want to prove his innocence."

I took a drag of my ciggie and regarded her carefully. "What do you think he'll do?" I had my own theory on the subject but Annie's opinions often proved useful. Her brow furrowed for a moment as she gazed off into space.

"He'll keep out of sight, try to avoid the police." She looked over at me as realisation dawned. "And he'll contact you."

I nodded. "Which is why Morgan's got a couple of coppers sitting outside in a parked car."

"What are you going to do?"

"Not a lot." I exhaled a final lungful of smoke, stubbing out the end of my fag. "Either Tyler really has done a runner - in which case there's nothing much I _can_ do - or else he'll come to me. And I'm willing to bet he's too smart by half to get spotted by Tweedledum and Tweedledee out there."

"And then what?"

With a sigh, I rubbed a weary hand over my eyes. "I don't know, Annie; I don't know."

 

***

 

The evening in the pub with Harry was a strangely subdued affair; a pale imitation of the nights we used to spend in the Railway Arms back when I was just a DI and he was my Guv. But then, two dead bodies in the space of a day does tend to put a damper on things.

"Joni Newton was in the club from ten until around midnight," Harry was saying, "And so as far as we can tell, looks like she was killed sometime between then and 3am."

Something which felt awfully like relief turned over in my gut. "Then Tyler can't have done it." I took a deep breath. "He was with me, Harry."

Woolf raised an eyebrow in surprise, and an odd look passed over his features.

"He was at my flat, from about ten o'clock onwards. We were talking about the case."

"Anyone else see him with you?"

"No – not unless someone saw him on his way over."

Harry eyes bored into mine, calculating and sceptical. "Gene..."

I brought my fist down sharply on the table top, frustration getting the better of me. "His money bought my services as a detective, not as his bloody alibi!"

Harry held up a placating hand. "All right, Gene. I believe you. But why didn't you say something before?"

"Thought you'd have uncovered other evidence by now; something that would point away from Tyler, and I wouldn't need to get involved."

"Thing is, Gene, even if that puts Tyler in the clear over the girl, there's still the question of who _did_ kill her. Not to mention the slight problem of Stephen Warren having washed up dead in Tyler's car."

"I don't think Sam did it, Harry; I think it points to someone else. After all, Sam didn't kill Joni and neither did Warren, seeing as how he was at the bottom of the canal at the time, so there's got to be someone else involved."

Woolf was gazing into the depths of his glass as though weighing up a decision, and when he finally spoke his voice was low.

"There was enough left of our dearly departed Mr. Warren for the quack to spot that the cause of death was a bullet to the head – probably close range."

I sat forward, fired up by this piece of information. "So it tallies with Sam's memory of that night!"

Woolf nodded, pensive. "We have to find him, Gene. If Tyler was a witness, then the chances are that the real murderer will be after him. We need to get to him first; give him a chance to give evidence. If he contacts you-"

"I know. But I need you to promise that you'll follow the other leads, Harry. Morgan is just dying to lay this whole mess at Tyler's feet, and I don't fancy Sam's chances once Morgan's got him in the cells."

Harry nodded again, his expression growing grave. "I do understand, Gene. But don't forget: you only have Tyler's word about Warren's shooting. Unless we uncover some hard evidence, Tyler is still our main suspect and it's going to be very difficult to convince anyone – including a jury - otherwise."

 

***

 

Despite my recent run of sleepless nights, I didn't get much rest. I spent the small hours tossing and turning, going over and over things until they made even less sense than they did originally. I finally woke from a fitful doze sometime just before six and got up, feeling gritty-eyed and muddle-headed.

After gulping down a strong, sweet tea I got in the Cortina and went for a drive.

There's something soothing about being behind the wheel, and even though I don't often see this time of the morning, what with usually being off in the land of nod, I do actually like it: when the streets look washed clean from the rubbish of the day before, and almost anything seems possible.

By the time I got back to the office an hour or so later I was no nearer working out what was going on but I felt clear and sharp.

I was on my third mug of tea when Annie arrived, earlier than usual. She got on with clearing away the remainder of the files while I gave Davey Robinson a call. Fortunately he was free and able to pop straight round and get on with fitting new locks to the doors the police had smashed in, replacing the cobbled-together repair job I'd managed to do the night before. Leaving him to work, I retired to my office, taking the newspaper and a fresh mug of tea with me.

Tyler had made it onto the front page in a story penned by Jackie Queen, no less. The piece managed to take the bald facts issued by the police – by Morgan, who was quoted twice – and embellish it into a manhunt for a crazed, sex- and drug-addled lunatic; one who was extremely dangerous and should not be approached under any circumstances. Fortunately, the accompanying photo-fit picture was up to the usual standards, which meant that Tyler's own mother couldn't have recognised it as being him.

I wondered if he'd seen it. I wondered if he was even still in Manchester. Maybe he'd just gone to ground until the initial panic was over and then he'd resurface, wanting my help to clear his name. But I had to face the fact that there was a distinct possibility he'd done a runner and I'd never see him again.

It wasn't such a comforting thought as it should have been.

The ring of the bell above the door broke my gloomy train of thought and I tossed the paper aside and stuck my nose out into reception where I could hear female voices.

"There you go, love. A spot of something for elevenses – and a little something extra for you, if I'm not mistaken. Though 'e's not much at writing love letters, I have to say."

It was Noreen, in the flesh – well, in her tabard - handing Annie a bulging paper bag. Noreen was a strapping woman on the wrong side of fifty with short, bleached blonde hair, an imposing bosom and biceps that would have done a brickie proud. She turned as I approached, giving me a bright, flirtatious smile which I returned with a deliberately lascivious grin.

"Hello there, Gene, love, how are you this mornin'?"

"Much better now that I've seen you, my little angel of delight."

The flirting was an old joke between us, comfortable and worn as an old pair of slippers. Noreen laughed and gave me a playful slap on the arm.

"Ooooh, you silver-tongued devil, you!"

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, o light of my life?"

"That nice young fella – you know, that friend of yours - popped by and ordered these first thing, asked me if I'd drop 'em in for you."

Something in my chest clenched uncomfortably, but I kept up the grin. "Thought you might have popped round for a different sort of elevenses..." I threw in an eyebrow waggle for extra effect.

"Full of sauce, this morning, I see, Gene! But you know I only have eyes for my Terry."

"Alas – much to the disappointment of red-blooded males everywhere." I gave a theatrical sigh. "Ah, well, off you go, then, and leave me to mend my broken heart as best as I can."

Noreen laughed and gestured at the bag. "Well, there's Eccles cakes in there to take your mind off it." She departed with a cheery wave, leaving Annie and I both staring at the unopened bag. Catching Annie's eye, I gave a meaningful nod at Davey's overall-clad back where he was still at work on the front door. Understanding, Annie got up, picked up the bag and followed me into my inner office. I waited until she shut the door before I spoke.

"Go on, then, Annie; the suspense is killing me."

Annie cautiously opened the bag and rummaged in it for a moment before pulling out a small piece of paper.

"Dewey's place, eleven am." She read, before flattening the scrap of paper on my desk.

Tyler wasn't taking any chances, then. Clever way to get a message to me unnoticed – paranoid bugger obviously didn't trust the phone - and even if it was intercepted it was obscure enough not to be understood. Even by me, it seemed.

I frowned. " 'Dewey's place'? Who the bleedin' hell is Dewey?"

Annie started to laugh and I looked up, fixing her with a stern glare.

"What? Spit it out, Cartwright!"

"Dewey Decimal system – he's talking about the _library_."

 

***

_to be continued..._

***


	12. Chapter 12

I pulled over Davey Robinson's van and parked it on a side-street, quickly stripped off my borrowed overalls and headed towards the imposing front steps of the central library.

Davey had barely raised an eyebrow at my unusual request and I'd left him having tea and Eccles cakes with Annie while I had walked out, right under the noses of my useless police watchdogs still at their post outside my office. Even so, I checked to make sure I hadn't been followed before climbing the steps and entering the building.

The librarian manning the front desk was busy browsing through an index and didn't so much as look up as I went past, heading into the gloomy, silent interior. The place was a maze formed from the crowded bookcases which stretched up to the high ceiling, their top shelves only accessible by narrow ladders on wheels. Desks were tucked into nooks and crannies and I peered around, wondering if anyone else could hear my heart which seemed to be pounding loudly in the oppressive silence.

In the end, I found Tyler in the reference section positioned right next to the fire exit, a few books and notes and a copy of the morning paper scattered on the table in front of him. I nearly went right past him, my eyes sliding over him at first glance, but there was something about the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head, which made me look again.

Gone was the leather and the stupid flowery shirts, replaced by beige stripes and a brown cord jacket with elbow patches. His hair was neatly brushed into a side parting, disturbed only by the heavy-framed glasses he had pushed up on his head. I blinked, momentarily dumbfounded by the transformation.

Tyler glanced up and I caught a flash of fear in his eyes before it was replaced by relief; and something in his expression, his features so familiar beneath the simple disguise, made my heart lurch in my chest.

I slid into the seat opposite, quickly checking around to make sure there was no-one within earshot before I leaned forward.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I hissed.

He choked off a bitter sounding laugh. "It's better than being behind bars."

"Which you could avoid altogether if you got out of town. Or even better - out of the country."

He was shaking his head, a stubborn set to his mouth.

"You've got the cash, haven't you? Well, it's enough to get you a long way from here, set you up where no-one knows you."

"Can't. I didn't do it, Gene! I've got to clear my name. I can't live life on the run looking over my shoulder the whole time!"

"Better than spending it sharing a cell with a bloke called Butch."

He was still shaking his head, and I wanted to shake the rest of him.

"I thought you'd want to help me, Gene. Don't you want to catch the bad guys?"

"Yes – but not at the risk of landing the good guys in the bleedin' slammer!"

Sam's lip curled in derision. "Might have known you'd be worried about your own neck. Well, you needn't be. Just leave. I'll manage just fine on my own."

"No you won't, you little tosser. You need my help, whether you like it or not, so stop arguing because I'm not bloody leaving!"

We heard someone, somewhere amongst the shelves, hiss 'Shhh!" and we fell silent, glaring at each other.

Finally, something in Tyler's eyes shifted and I knew he'd conceded. He gave a sigh. "All right." He continued in a lower, calmer tone. "I'm sorry; you didn't deserve that. I know you've already risked a lot to help me." He waved his hand at the newspaper.

I snorted. "You don't know the half of it, sunshine."

So, quietly and briefly, I told him everything. About his car and Warren's body; about Joni's death, Morgan's interrogation, and my conversations with Harry Woolf. And as Sam leaned closer to me over the table I realised that under the dust and mildew of the library and the faint, stale smoke of his second-hand jacket I could smell _him_; I wanted nothing more than to reach out to him across the wood and newspaper, reassure myself with the touch of flesh and bone. Instead, I clasped my hands together and waited for his reaction.

He sat white and motionless, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

"Sam?" I wasn't sure going down this route was a good idea, given the way Tyler had reacted last time, but something in me seemed to have taken over my mouth. "Look, no-one's crying over Warren. If you shot him, in self-defence, say...if he was trying to force you to do...something."

Sam swallowed thickly, but his voice was steady when he replied in a low tone. "I didn't kill Warren."

"Okay. But I need to know – did you _do_ anything with him?"

"What?" Then his fleeting look of confusion disappeared and his eyes narrowed, lip curling. "So, we have a bit of a fumble and now you think you're entitled to know all about my sex life?"

_Yes._

"No. But I need to know if the coppers are going to uncover something about you and him – I don't want to be blindsided."

He let out a long breath, his expression a shifting mix of emotions. "No." He said finally, and something unclenched in my gut. "I...no. Nothing like that. I can remember I didn't like him. I think..." Sam frowned and tailed off, only to give his head a quick shake.

"I think I must have been investigating Warren, and I know I was there the night he was shot but I didn't shoot him."

"I know, Sam. The problem is proving it."

Sam was still frowning in concentration, his gaze fixed somewhere over my left shoulder. "Maybe whoever killed Warren killed Joni, too?" He suggested.

"Maybe. Although it's starting to look like Warren was bumped off because someone wanted to muscle in on his empire. Maybe Joni was just a loose end. Or maybe she was killed to implicate you. After all, once you're behind bars that's the whole mess nicely wrapped up."

"It's a big risk for someone to take – what if I remembered enough for the true story to come out?"

"Maybe you aren't supposed to make it as far as prison."

His eyes met mine, grave and anxious.

"You think I'd be safer if I turned myself in?"

"Not sure as I'd go so far as to say that – not yet, anyway. No, I think we need to work out who is behind this. And you still being on the loose might be just the thing to flush 'em out in the open."

He smiled, wryly. "Like a tethered goat?"

"Something like that."

"Let's hope someone thinks I'm tasty."

I just raised an eyebrow and let that one pass. We lapsed into silence for a moment, Sam pinching the bridge of his nose.

"The waiting around is bloody frustrating, though. And there was no other evidence from my car?"

"Aside from the dead piece of scum stuffed in it, you mean? No, not that I know of. Still, suppose that explains why you were rambling on about your boot."

Sam looked up at me sharply. "What?"

"In the hospital. You know, it was in Sister Dobb's notes."

"But I didn't know anything about Warren's body being in there! I mean, I still don't. They must have disposed of it _after_ they'd run me over."

I nodded slowly. "Makes sense. They think they've hit you hard enough to kill you and knock your body into the canal, then they go and get rid of Warren in your car. Not bad – except for not bothering to check you were actually dead."

"So, maybe there's something else in the car?"

"What, apart from the rancid remains of one Stephen Warren, Esquire?"

"Yes." Sam sat forward, his eyes ablaze. "I'm sure of it, Gene. Something I hid in the boot."

"What, then?"

"I don't know!" He hissed, hitting the desk with a clenched fist.

That one got us a theatrically loud "Shhh!" from a librarian who peered, stern-faced, around the end of the row of bookcases. I raised a placating hand and after giving us a warning glare she retreated back into the stacks.

"All right, smartarse." I whispered. "You hid something in the boot. So I suppose you want me to go rummaging around for it, do you?"

"Yes! Do you know where the car is being held?"

"Yep – in the police lock-up round on Grafton Street."

"Right. All we've got to do is go round there under the cover of darkness-"

"Hang on – what do you mean 'we'? You aren't coming with me, you bloody nutcase!"

"But I have to search-"

"No! No arguments, Tyler. You are _not_ walking into a police pound like a lamb to the slaughter!"

"I thought I was a goat?"

"Shut up!"

"But you don't even know what you're looking for!"

"Neither do you – or did you forget you'd lost your memory as well as, apparently, your mind?"

He glared at me, fuming, and I glared back.

"That's it decided, then." I said firmly. "I'll go and search tonight, and I'll see you back here tomorrow at the same time."

Sam sat back with a huff, folding his arms. After a few minutes silence I asked: "Have you got a place to stay?"

He wiped a hand over his face, looking tired. "Yeah, a bed and breakfast place on-"

I held up a hand. "Don't tell me – it's better if I don't know."

He shut his mouth with a curt nod and I inwardly cursed myself.

"Look, are you all right?"

He gave a soft laugh. "Most normal people would have asked me that _first_ of all."

I snorted. "If I was normal I wouldn't be sitting here with you."

He gave another laugh in reply, but it was too weak for my liking. I leaned forward, stretching an arm out across the table towards him.

"Trust me, Sam."

He sighed and reached out, and for a moment I thought he was going to take my hand but instead he reached for his glasses and brought them down to rest in place on his nose. They were an effective disguise, except that I seriously doubted he could see anything through them. God only knows which charity shop or Lost and Found he'd got them from because the lenses were the thickness of jam-jar bottoms. He blinked at me owlishly, and I got the sense that our meeting was over. I rose to my feet but as I did his hand snaked out, fingers catching at the edge of my sleeve.

"I do." He said suddenly, his voice low and intense. "I do trust you."

I just nodded once, and left before I did anything stupid.

 

***

After dropping Davey's van off and exchanging a few words of reassurance with Annie, I spent the rest of the afternoon out on the streets, not able to bear the thought of being cooped up my office waiting for something to happen.

I still had contacts, snouts who I could tap for street gossip, but several hours later I had little to show for my efforts other than tired feet and a lighter wallet. The news of Warren's death had spread like wildfire but the reactions seemed mostly shock and astonishment, with the occasional tinge of glee. Yes, no-one had seen him around for a while, now that they thought about it, but people just assumed he was off doing business down south – although no-one could remember where they first heard that rumour.

Tired and frustrated, I went back to the office late in the afternoon. Annie had gone, so I let myself in and ate the sandwich she'd left me and the rest of the Eccles cakes, all washed down with a mug of strong tea.

Someone had effectively taken out Warren and taken over his empire without causing a ripple; sliding into the power vacuum before anyone had really noticed. Whoever it was must have a fair bit of muscle, not to mention impressive underworld connections of their own in order to keep things running smoothly. It had to be someone who knew Warren - maybe a business partner; someone close to him.

Noticing the time, I picked up the phone and called Ray, hoping to still catch him at CID.

"Hello, Ray."

"Oh, it's you. Not rung up to tell us you've got Tyler tied to a chair, I suppose?"

"'Fraid not. I just wanted to ask if you'd heard anything about who's running Warren's business, seeing as he's somewhat indisposed."

Ray snorted. "Your guess is a good as mine, mate – we've been asking questions but all we've 'ad so far is blank looks and crocodile tears. Morgan's got some notion about hauling in some of the usual suspects like the Morton brothers but unless we've got something concrete on them they'll clam up tighter than a nun's knees. Any road, finding Tyler is top priority."

"Hmm. Speaking of Tyler, Ray, have your boys had a good look at his car?"

"Yes – apparently it's a blue Rover and there was a body in it. What more were you hoping for?"

"Oh, I was just wondering...Suppose it's safe and sound under lock and key round at Grafton Street?"

"Yep."

"And it's secure, is it? Same as it used to be?"

"Well, I doubt anyone's going to nick Tyler's car, not the state it's in..._ohhh_, I get you. Well, I suppose someone could get in easy enough – the only thing to get through is a chain link fence with a padlock." Ray gave a chuckle. "But anyone wanting a closer look at Tyler's car would have to have the constitution of an elephant – it's bloody rank, let me tell you."

"Thanks, Ray," I said drily, "that's good to know."

The noise I heard as I hung up was Ray laughing.

 

***

There was no point heading over to the police pound until the small hours, so I decided to kill time by paying a little visit to some local nightspots in the hope of finding a couple more of my contacts who I hadn't yet leaned on for news. Besides, it gave my police escort something to do, and would lull them into a nice false sense of security for later tonight.

I didn't bother with the Warren – the coppers would be all over the place like a particularly nasty dose of the clap – but I called into a couple of other bars and clubs, including a brief visit to The Den, and ended up just after midnight at the Wild Card Club.

It was a long shot – appropriate, given it was a casino – but I knew Tony Crane from my time on the force, not to mention the odd visit I'd paid to his card tables over the years, and I figured he might be willing to give me some free information now, just for old times' sake. He wasn't exactly squeaky-clean himself, with some rumours going round last year that he was involved in money laundering, but he'd never been seriously implicated in anything.

The place was buzzing, with punters grouped around the roulette and card tables, chips of various colours scattered here and stacked there, the murmur of voices interspersed by laughter and the occasional whoop of a winner. I made my way over to where Tony Crane was standing at the bar, deep in conversation with a big bruiser of a bloke. He saw me, and waved a hand to dismiss his mate.

"Mr. Hunt – long time no see."

We shook hands.

"You here for a bit of a flutter?"

"Bit of a chat, if that's all right with you."

He gave a nod and steered me through the back to his office. I glanced around as he poured us both a drink, taking in the big fish tank and the framed pictures and photos on his walls: Crane shaking hands with various local businessmen and celebrities; a crowded shot of the casino on a fund-raising night for the local Round Table, Crane prominent in the foreground; one of his dolly-birds looking sexy and glamorous in front of a roulette wheel, the table piled high with chips. Something struck a chord and I stared for a moment, trying to work out what it was, but Crane's voice cut through my thoughts.

"So, what can I do for you, now that you don't have a badge to wave about?"

I turned and took the proffered glass of scotch before sitting down across the desk from him. "There's no easy way to come out and ask this, so I'll get straight to the point: you've heard about Stephen Warren's watery ending?"

Crane's expression was deadpan. "I'm still in mourning. Couldn't have happened to a nicer man."

"Well, I'm trying to find out who's taken over his patch."

Crane took a long drink of his scotch before speaking. "Bit out of your league, isn't it? I thought lost pets was more your line these days."

I ground my teeth, but before I could react he waved a hand in a vaguely apologetic gesture. "It's just I'd have thought this was business for the police, Mr. Hunt."

"Let's just say I've got a vested interest."

Crane raised an eyebrow, but I just took a drink and waited.

"Well, I don't know what to tell you. I keep my nose clean – and well out of Warren's business. I suggest that you do the same."

"So you haven't heard anything about a takeover?"

"Nope. Now I'm afraid I've got to get back to work." Crane downed the rest of his scotch and stood. "Money won't make itself, after all."

He held the door open and ushered me out of his office, catching the eye of the barman as we returned to the main floor of the club. "Make sure Mr. Hunt doesn't run dry, Ricky." Crane gave me a wink. "Enjoy yourself – it's on the house." And giving me a farewell pat on the shoulder he left, threading his way through the crowd.

I spent a few minutes at the bar, letting my eyes wander over the throng as I finished my scotch. It was a lively bunch; most of them dressed to the nines, knocking back cocktails and placing bets as though they hadn't a care in the world. And yet, something was niggling again at the back of my mind, like the feeling that I'd left a tap running somewhere.

Putting my empty glass down on the bar I shook my head at the barman and took my leave. Out on the street I gave Tweedledum and Tweedledee, parked just down the road, a cheery wave, then I climbed into the Cortina and gunned the engine, homeward bound.

I was half way there before it suddenly hit me: golden crowns. Golden crowns, simple, like a kid would draw, on all the poker chips; piles and piles of golden crowns staring me right in the bloody face.

 

***


	13. Chapter 13

When I got home I locked the front doors and after a few minutes I switched off the lights and sat down to wait in the dark.

Crane. Ambitious and shrewd; ruthless. Yes, it was possible. But how the hell could I find a connection between him and Warren? I could get hold of a photo and see if Sam could identify him as Warren's killer, but even if he could, it would be Sam's word against Crane's.

I let my head fall back against the cushion. I desperately wanted a fag but didn't want to risk any signs of life being spotted by my guardians below, so I sat there, stewing, straining every now and again to see the hands on my watch as they twitched with frustrating slowness around the dial.

After an hour I got changed into some old, dark clothing and let myself carefully out of the back window, shinning down the drainpipe to the back yard, and out to the lane where Annie had kindly left me her car.

 

***

 

The pound was easy to get into, just as Ray had said. The padlock put up very little resistance in the face of the Gene Genie, and once through the gate I quickly spotted Tyler's car, parked off to one side. I'd tied an old scarf over my nose and mouth, but even so I could smell the reek from it at twenty paces. Keeping my breathing shallow, I stepped up to it and eased open the boot, puling a torch out of my bag and switching it on.

The next few minutes were spent carrying out a close search of the boot while wearing rubber gloves and trying not to look too closely at anything in case it turned out to be bits of Warren. Tricky stuff, let me tell you, although as it turned out there was little to see: partly disintegrated newspapers and a soggy road atlas, a ruined first-aid kit and an empty mints wrapper. I wiped something particularly foul off my glove and cursed Sam Tyler, silently but with great imagination.

Just to be thorough, I eased up the covering over the spare tyre only to discover that there was no spare tyre, just a tyre-shaped depression filled with black, foul-smelling water. I wrinkled my nose at the fresh wave of stench, then, when my eyes stopped watering, I saw that there was something partially submerged, stuffed into the space where the tyre would usually be. Bracing myself, I fished around, finally pulling out two things: a camera and a small security box.

Bloody hell.

I didn't hang around. Stuffing them both into my bag, I put the spare tyre cover back and shut the boot, then I legged it. I pulled the gates shut, snapping the padlock in place behind me, and didn't stop to draw breath until I was safely back in Annie's Hillman Imp. The street I'd parked in was quiet, so, unable to wait any longer, I drew out the security box and tried to open it. No luck. I peered at the tiny lock, wondering if my lockpick tools were fine enough for the job, and suddenly realised where I had seen a key that would fit.

Scrabbling about, I tried to get my wallet out of my trouser pocket while still wearing the rubber gloves - which would have been comical if it hadn't been so bloody serious – and eventually managed it, finding that the tiny key fitted the lock perfectly. It turned and I held my breath as I opened the lid, wondering if this was how Pandora had felt, and found myself staring at a slightly damp sheaf of hand-written notes.

I lifted them out carefully and underneath was a set of photographs. I flicked through the photos quickly: some of them were damaged where water had leaked into the box, and most had a grainy quality which pointed to the use of a telephoto lens but even so I could easily tell that the main subject was Stephen Warren, pictured with various people in different locations; money and goods seemed to be changing hands in some of them. I gave a low whistle. This would put the cat among the pigeons, all right.

But it was the final object in the box that made the breath hitch in my chest: a worn leather wallet which contained a warrant card, for one Detective Inspector Sam Tyler.

 

***

 

I awoke with a jolt at the ringing of a bell. There was a nasty, heart-thumping moment before I realised where I was: slumped over my office desk, some papers sticking unpleasantly to my cheek. I peeled them off and stretched, uncramping my limbs and trying to rub what felt like a chimney's worth of grit from my eyes.

The bell signalled Annie's arrival – she didn't normally work on Saturdays, but she'd insisted on coming in - which meant it was nine o'clock, which in turn meant that I'd been asleep (albeit fully dressed and awkwardly sprawled) for all of about three hours. I got up stiffly, and went out to the reception to greet her. To my undying gratitude, she had arrived armed with bacon butties for us both so we munched on them while I filled her in on the night's discoveries.

Annie's eyes went wide as I showed her the camera and the box, and after wiping the grease from her fingers she gingerly leafed through the now-dry contents.

"What are these notes?"

"They look to be dates with places and names – I think they're Sam's notes of the meetings he snooped on." The pages had been torn out of the small notebook we'd found in his flat.

"The photos have the date and time written on the back of them, too – well, the ones that're legible," I added. "Trust Tyler to be a picky pain with his cross-referencing."

Pausing at one of the photos, Annie drew in a sharp breath. "Isn't that Councillor Martin?"

I nodded. "There's more like that. And there was another roll of film in the camera – don't know if there's anything on it, or whether being in that canal water has done any damage, but I left it with Trevor to see what he could do with it."

Trevor hadn't been too pleased to see me on his doorstep at six in the morning as he doesn't normally open up the shop until nine. I'd only given him the briefest of explanations: that it was really urgent and he should say nothing to anyone about it. After opening his mouth and then shutting it, Trevor finally just nodded, wrapping his dressing-gown more firmly about his waist as though girding his loins before going into battle. He'd promised to ring me when he'd managed to develop what was there.

"Gene, you've got to go to the police with all this," Annie was saying. "If Stephen Warren was really bribing or doing deals with all these people...well, they'll all need investigating, and there'll be a massive scandal."

"But with Warren dead, I'm not sure how much mud can be made to stick." I replied, grimly.

"Yes, but surely if they have Sam's testimony…"

"What, an amnesiac who's wanted for murder?"

Annie's head snapped up. "But he's a policeman!"

"I know, Annie. But I don't know if that'll be enough to get him off the hook." Whether it was coincidence or deliberate framing, Sam's involvement in two murders was too convenient for the police to overlook.

"He's got you as an alibi for Joni's murder-"

"Yes, that'll help his case no end – an ex-copper who was slung off the force for corruption!"

"We don't have time for you to feel sorry for yourself now!"

I blinked at the harshness of Annie's words, but given my recent behaviour I could understand them. "I'm not," I said, more gently. "I'm trying to explain why my word isn't going to carry much weight."

She cleared her throat, apparently mollified. "All right, but what about Sam? He can't keep dodging the police forever."

She was right, although I couldn't help thinking that the main danger to Sam was himself. "No, I know. I'll meet him as planned, tell him what I found, and we'll work out where to go from there."

I gathered up the evidence, deciding to take the photos with me. Tony Crane was in three of the shots, so my flash of inspiration about his involvement seemed well founded, and hopefully the sight of him would jog Sam's memory further. I slid them into an envelope, and put the rest of the items in my desk drawer.

Davey had just turned up as arranged when the phone rang, and Annie broke off from making the tea to answer it. She interrupted us, one hand over the mouthpiece.

"It's Superintendent Woolf for you."

I nodded and went to take it in my office, closing the door behind me.

"Ah, Gene." Harry's voice rumbled over the line and I heard a click as Annie replaced the receiver at her desk. "Don't suppose you've had any contact with Tyler?"

"No, none at all." I lied blithely.

"Well, thought you might like to know - turns out your man is a D.I."

I shut my eyes, relieved that the police had managed to find out at least that much about him. Harry carried on speaking.

"It was Carling's idea, but he ran into a bit of a brick wall. I managed to call in a couple of favours and found out that for the last few months Tyler's been working for some new national taskforce; all a bit hush-hush. He was on an undercover assignment but no-one seems to know where, or what he was doing. Looks a right pig's ear to me."

"That explains a lot." I said, struggling to sound calm over the pounding of the blood in my head. "He must have been investigating Warren, Harry. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Maybe, but that's only the start of it. Tyler's record suggests he's a bit on edge: two commendations for bravery in the last year but one was for defusing a car bomb and the other was for swapping himself to release a hostage during a siege. Likes throwing himself in harm's way, by the looks of things."

I focussed on Harry's words, trying to fit this version of Sam over the one I knew.

"And not entirely stable, apparently," Harry continued. "Some rumours about having to talk him down off a rooftop. And then that car accident – only a few months after the _previous_ time he was run over - God knows what another blow to the head might have done to Tyler's already fragile state. He might have had enough and just snapped; decided shooting Warren was the easiest option-"

"Tyler didn't do it, Harry," I interrupted his flow. "He's sure he didn't, and so am I."

There was a note of suspicion in Harry's voice. "Thought you said you hadn't seen him?"

I took a deep breath. "Some other evidence has come into my possession," I said, feeling foolish at the odd-sounding formality of the words. "Photos taken by Tyler while undercover. I've got a dozen, with more on film. Some dodgy blaggers, a few businessmen we've been suspicious of but never been able to nab with their hands dirty. There's even a couple of local politicians. This is big, Harry. Huge."

There was silence at the other end of the line.

"Harry?"

"Bloody hell, Gene!" he hissed. "Where'd you get all this from?"

"Tyler's car. Hidden in the boot."

There was another short silence and I chewed at my lip. I knew I was bringing down a whole shit-load of trouble on my own head but I had to try to clear Tyler's name.

"Is there anything showing Warren's murder?" Harry growled. "Anything that might point to the killer?"

"Not in this lot. But there might be in the other film. I should know in a couple of hours."

"Right. Listen to me, Gene. For now, Tyler is still wanted for murder. Maybe it was an undercover job gone wrong, but he's still the main suspect so we need to bring him in and find out what he can remember. So if there's any way for you to contact him, you need to get him to give himself up. Do you understand me?"

Through gritted teeth, I agreed.

"And I'll need to see those photos."

"I've got them somewhere safe for now, Harry." Well, I figured my jacket pocket was a safe a place as any. "I'll try to find Tyler, then I'll call you back later to arrange a meeting."

"Today, Gene, do you hear? And make sure you come straight to me with the photos – that way we might be able to overlook your trespassing activities."

Harry hung up, sounding decidedly pissed-off. Still, not nearly as pissed-off as he would be if he ever found out I'd been in contact with Sam all along.

With a few brief words to Annie and Davey, I got ready to go. I pulled Davey's overalls on over the top of my clothes, wedged his cap on my head and departed via the front door, climbing straight into the van and driving off with the barest glance at Tweedledum and Tweedledee, still parked outside in their Morris Minor.

Once all this was over, I'd have a quiet word with Ray about those two. To have been fooled once by a set of overalls is embarrassing; twice is nothing short of carelessness.

 

***

"Look, you must have seen him. He was in here yesterday: youngish, in a brown cord jacket and thick glasses."

The librarian at the desk shook her head, lips pressed together in faint disapproval.

I'd waited over an hour, occasionally roaming around the bookcases but mostly hanging around at the desk Sam had been parked at the day before.

I tried again. "He was supposed to meet me here."

"Sir, this is a public library, not a gentleman's club." She sniffed, regarding me with all the distaste of a diner who's just discovered a fly in their soup. "I suggest that you and your friend pick somewhere else more suitable for your assignations. A pub, perhaps."

She turned away, unmistakably dismissing me, and for a second I considered vaulting the front desk to press my interrogation further. I took a deep breath and realised I was grinding my teeth. I forced myself to turn back towards the psychology shelves, fists clenching, fighting the desire to shout and thump the desks, turn a couple over, maybe, send some books flying. But I knew it would be no good to give in to my mounting sense of panic. I had to-

"_Pssst!_"

Jerking my head round, I saw a young woman beckoning to me from the philosophy section. I blinked, pondering just how forward young women were these days, then I recognised her as one of the junior librarians. I stepped over to her, hope flaring painfully in my chest.

"You were asking about Mr. Taylor?" she whispered.

I almost rolled my eyes at the pathetically simple pseudonym. Instead, I pointed at the desk across the aisle. "The chap who was sitting there yesterday? Brown cord jacket and glasses?" I clarified.

She nodded.

"I was supposed to meet him here – has he been in today? Or do you know if he left anything for me, a message or a book, even?"

She had switched to shaking her head, which I liked a lot less. "Sorry," she said. "I just heard Olive being her usual friendly self and I thought I might have been able to help you, but all I can tell you is that he definitely hasn't been in here today."

Hope died, and I ran a despairing hand through my hair.

"Look, did he seem OK when he left yesterday?"

"Oh, yes. He seemed quite excited."

I leaned forward. "What? When was this?"

"Just before closing; he'd been looking at back copies of the Manchester Gazette, so I just assumed his research was going well."

"Do you have any idea what he was looking at just before he left?"

"Oh yes." Her expression brightened and she beckoned me closer. "I'll show you, if you like."

 

***

 

Bloody Tyler.

I honked the van's horn at a couple of women who were too busy gossiping to get themselves across the road with any sort of speed, and revved loudly, wishing I was in the Cortina.

Stupid bloody Tyler.

Thanks to my helpful young librarian who, fortunately for me, knew her way around that microfilm contraption, I now knew exactly what Tyler had been looking at yesterday afternoon.

The women finished crossing and I accelerated away, cursing the sluggish diesel engine. I was on my way to Trevor's shop to follow up my one remaining line of enquiry. Even though I was eager to see what Trevor had managed to develop, there was really no point in pushing the van; I knew that, but it gave me some outlet for the fury and frustration that I was desperately trying to keep in check.

It had been an edition of the Manchester Gazette from last year; page seven, on what had evidently been a slow news day. The Round Table fundraiser in the _Wild Card Club_, story with accompanying photo, Tony Crane posed in the centre of the shot.

The van's tyres squealed as I took a corner a little too sharply.

Quite how much of his memory Sam had got back I didn't know, but he'd obviously remembered enough to recognise Crane. What he'd done then was anybody's guess. I fumed, waiting at a red light.

Stupid bastard might at least have contacted me - how he'd been a copper with such a weak grasp of teamwork, I couldn't fathom. Ah, but then I'd been out most of the evening. Bugger. I banged my fist on the steering wheel, causing an old lady on the pavement to glance over in alarm.

It was possible Tyler'd finally hightailed it out of town, but given his holier-than-thou determination to prove his innocence I thought it unlikely. And if he'd been arrested by the police I was sure I'd have heard about it. Besides, Tyler was too good to be found easily. I thought that one over, piecing it together with the information Harry had given me, and the Sam that I had come to know over the past couple of weeks.

Too clever to get caught - but just stupid enough to walk into trouble deliberately. Oh, yes: Tyler was arrogant and desperate enough to have waltzed right up to Crane and asked for a signed bleedin' confession.

A siren sounded somewhere in the distance and belatedly spotting that the lights had changed to green I pulled the van away, grinding the gears along with my teeth. I hoped to God that Tyler had a plan somewhere in that addled brain of his, because short of suicidally storming the _Wild Card Club_, I sure as hell didn't.

The siren seemed to be getting louder, and I checked the rear view mirror in case I had to pull over for an ambulance.

That was, of course, assuming Sam was still alive.

It was on that morbid thought that I turned the corner and took in the sight of Trevor's shop burning away merrily, the flames lending a cheery glow to the otherwise grey and gloomy sky.

 

***


	14. Chapter 14

"Thank heavens Trevor was still at home," Annie said once I'd sent Davey off, well paid for his time and van, and the two of us were alone.

"Yeah. He'd started working on the negatives at home first thing and he was still busy in his shed." I took a swig from my hipflask, and seeing Annie's shocked and dazed expression I held it out to her. For a moment she wavered, then accepted it and poured a dollop in her tea.

I'd found Trevor at home, still reeling from a phone call from the police breaking the news about his shop. With the help of a spot of Tyler's cash I'd made a persuasive case for Trevor to take himself and Betty away for a few days, and he hadn't taken much further convincing once I hinted that the fire may not have been an accident. I had no proof of that, of course, but I didn't trust coincidences at the best of times.

"Not much to show, for all that effort," Annie said, gesturing to the few photos scattered in front of us. She had a point. If I'd been hoping to blow the case wide open with irrefutable evidence from Tyler's film, then I'd been setting myself up for a crashing disappointment.

There had only been a handful of shots on the undeveloped film, all with the now-familiar grainy quality. The subjects, too, were similar: Warren, Crane, a couple of others who I recognised from the other set of photos or because they were well-known local men. One shadowy figure appeared twice but, frustratingly, always standing out of the light and I couldn't make out his features.

"There must be enough here for the police to start investigating?" Annie asked.

"But not enough to suggest who killed Warren. Or Joni, for that matter."

Annie chewed at her lip for a moment. "I could go over Sam's notes," she said finally. "Maybe there'll be more information there that would give us a clue to the photos that were damaged."

I nodded slowly. I didn't like the way this was going: events rolling on, picking up pace, unravelling out of my control. Sam disappearing. No, I didn't like it one little bit.

Annie got up and made her way out to her desk, moving as though with a heavy heart. I'd told her about Sam going missing, although I'd kept my theories to myself. Didn't want to worry her any more than was necessary.

Lighting a fag, I considered my options. I could go and confront Crane. Likely to lead to a simple denial at best, serious (possibly fatal) damage to my person at worst. I could try to find the B&amp;B Sam had been staying in, and while there was less immediate danger involved, it would be like looking for a needle in the proverbial. Of course, there was always Harry Woolf...

The ringing of the phone startled me out of my reverie and, with an odd tingling sensation at the back of head, I snatched it up before Annie could answer it.

"Hunt."

"Mr. Hunt? It's Sam Tyler here."

And so it was – no doubts about the voice at the other end, although the words, polite and formal, were decidedly suspect. Either he'd completely lost whatever marbles he had left, or else someone was sitting next to him with a large gun pointed right at him. I swallowed down what I wanted to say, settling instead for: "You're a hard man to keep track of, Mr. Tyler."

I had to assume that if someone was forcing him to make this phone call, then they could hear me as well as him.

"Yes. Sorry about that. Look...I need your help with something."

"Go on."

"The package I left with you – the photos from my car - I need you to come and meet me tonight and bring it with you."

So it seemed he'd remembered that much, at least. "This is all a bit unorthodox." I replied carefully.

"That's what I'm paying you for, Hunt."

I was certain he was playing a part, but his curt tone was horribly convincing and I found myself bristling at his words. "I'll want twice my daily rate – you do know the police are still looking for you?"

"Yes, but I'm relying on you to avoid them. Don't worry. Just do this one thing then I'll pay you and that will be the end of it."

He gave me the address of the old mill and a time: midnight. Bit bloody clichéd if you ask me.

"All right," I said, "I'll be there."

"Good. Thanks." And he hung up.

I must have stayed sitting there, listening to the disconnected tone, for a fair few minutes before I finally released my white-knuckled grip on the handset and replaced it on its cradle. Hearing his voice had been a relief – not that I thought he was dead, but it was nice to have solid proof – although not being able to speak freely was bloody frustrating.

Working on the assumption that Sam was being held against his will, presumably by Crane, I could only think that he was trying to use the photos to barter for his life. The alternative was that this was the real Sam Tyler, and he'd been playing me for a sap like an expert fiddler plays the ruddy violin. I didn't like that idea too much.

I rose, taking one last swig from my flask. Either way, I could be walking into a trap. But in the end, what choice did I have?

 

***

 

"No!" Annie shook her head, lips pressed stubbornly together.

"Annie, this is getting far too dangerous for you to be involved."

"That's rubbish, and you know it! I've worked for you for three years and in all that time I've never needed protecting and I've never abandoned you..." She turned away, folding her arms defensively across her chest.

"Listen to me, love." I took hold of her shoulders and gently turned her round to face me. "You saw the people on those photos; you know what some of those people might be willing to do to stop their involvement with Stephen Warren coming to light. Trevor's had the sense to leave town, and I need you to do the same thing."

She went back to shaking her head. "I'm not going to leave you and run away."

"I'm not asking you to run away, I'm asking you to be the back-up plan."

That got her attention, and I took the large envelope from the desk and pressed it into her hands. "Tyler's notes, and copies of all the photos Trevor developed, along with the negatives. I need you to take this lot and go to your mam's and wait to see what happens."

Annie's expression of anger shifted to worry. "What do you mean, _what happens_?"

"Just wait for me to contact you, all right?"

"No, hang on, when? What are you going to do?"

"Don't worry, Annie, I'm about to give Harry Woolf a call and it should all be fine. Honestly, love. By this time tomorrow Tyler will be scot-free and it will all be over."

She fixed me with a level, unflinching gaze.

"And what if it isn't?"

I met her eyes; I owed her that much honesty. "Then in two days time you take all this and you give it to Jackie Queen."

"But, you _hate_ Jackie Queen..."

"Too right I do. She's a vicious bitch who won't stop at anything until she uncovers a story. Which is exactly why she's the right person to give this to."

There were tears glinting in her eyes when Annie finally nodded, then she pulled me into a tight hug.

"Be careful, Gene. Please."

 

***

 

Annie left at her usual time, the evidence stashed in her college bag alongside her psychology books, and I watched until she drove safely out of sight.

Then I called Harry Woolf.

I told him all about Sam's phone call and my suspicions about Crane, and about the meeting to hand over the photos.

"Bloody hell. Tony Crane...? You're playing with fire here, Gene, but I'll arrange police back-up for you, of course. If you can go in there and get Crane to show himself, then we'll have him bang-to-rights. But, Gene, you have to face facts: Tyler himself could be behind all this, you know."

"Then I'll take him down myself." I replied, grimly.

Hanging up, I lit myself a fag.

I was taking a huge risk; not just with my life, but with Tyler's. If I was wrong, then he'd probably end up behind bars and there was a fair chance that I'd be joining him, for obstruction and collusion and anything else Morgan could trump up.

But if I was right...well. Then all bets were off.

I went up to my flat and retrieved my gun from the oven, checking it and loading it. Then, a heavy weight settling in my gut, I picked up the phone and dialled Ray's number.

 

***

 

From the street, the mill seemed in darkness and the main gates appeared firmly shut but when I tried them they swung open noiselessly. I circled the building, not bothering with stealth – I knew I was being watched, after all - and found the padlock on the side door was similarly unfastened. I let myself in and followed the faint light through the passages towards the room where Tyler and I had found the blood stain.

I turned the last corner, tension knotting in my guts at the sight directly ahead: Sam, looking pale under the glare of the overhead light. Moving closer, I could see the livid bruising on his face, and the way he was standing, holding himself still, suggested he was favouring his left leg.

Battered, but still in one piece, then. Good.

Because when all this was over I was going to bloody well kill him.

"You've brought the package?" he asked, his voice sounding low and hoarse across the open space.

"Just like you asked." I replied, reaching into my coat pocket.

As I did so, there was sudden movement off to one side-

"Hold it right there."

And in case the words weren't enough to convince me, I heard the _snick_ of a safety catch being released. I froze in place, risking a sideways glance at the other man even though I'd already recognised his voice: Tony Crane.

He stepped alongside me, dipping his hand into my pocket and pulling out a thick envelope. "I'll take those, thanks." He shifted behind me and removed my gun from my other pocket then retreated, his gun trained on me, keeping a careful eye on us both.

I had noticed that the crates had been moved around since our last visit, creating plenty of places for a man to hide, so I had no idea how many of his goons Crane had with him – or how many might be stationed outside. I could only wait for him to show his hand.

Crane backed towards the door, giving Sam a hard shove out of the way. Tyler stumbled for a few steps before regaining his balance - seemed I was right about that leg – and darted what I took to be an apologetic glance in my direction.

"You look like shite, Gladys." I observed.

Sam gazed down at himself, as though taking in his own dishevelled appearance for the first time. Apart from the bruises, there were blood stains down the front of his shirt and the brown cord jacket looked like it needed a lot more than just elbow patches "Oh, sorry," he said with mild surprise, making a show of straightening his collar and jacket. "Seems I forgot to shave this morning."

He canted me a swift look of wry amusement before turning warily to face Crane, and in those seconds I caught a glimpse of clarity and steeliness beneath Sam's worn, bedraggled exterior that warmed the cockles of my tired old heart. I fought down the urge to grin like a maniac.

Fixing my eyes on Crane I kept on talking, knowing that it was worth buying every extra minute I could and praying Sam would play along.

"So what did you do, Einstein, walk into 'is club and ask him nicely to give himself up?"

"I was trying to get some evidence." Sam grumbled. "I had a plan, all right?"

"Not a very good one, by the looks of it."

"For fuck's sake!" Crane interrupted. "This isn't the bloody _Comedians_!" He gestured impatiently with the gun and Sam and I shut up, both raising our hands slowly.

"Should have stuck with the missing cats, Hunt." Crane said with a sneer.

I gave a slight shrug. "I'm allergic."

Crane was feeling around in the envelope with his spare hand, and risked a glance down to look inside. Sam made the smallest of moves towards him and Crane's head jerked up, gun hand twitching towards Tyler.

"It's all there." I said loudly, dragging his attention from Sam. "Photos and negatives." The negatives were of Mr. Palmer (junior) and his blonde tart (not so junior) off on a dirty weekend in Blackpool, but I was hoping Crane wouldn't take the time to examine them closely enough to find that out.

"Don't suppose you're going to just let us go?" Sam ventured, eyebrow raised with a sardonic quirk.

"Don't suppose I am." Crane replied, his mouth spreading in a humourless grin. "But look at it this way: you wouldn't even have lived this long had it not been for a bunch of useless Hungarians bungling the job. Bloody amateurs. Told me you were dead but they hadn't even bothered to check."

Sam gave his head a little shake. "Why'd you do it? You had a nice little partnership going with Warren, and you risked it all by killing him."

"He got greedy," Crane snapped.

"_You_ got greedy, more like." I put in.

Crane switched his glare to me, and I noticed Sam shifting his weight to the other leg, edging slightly away from me. "That arse-bandit was making more than he let on and pocketing the profit," Crane snarled. "I don't like cheats."

Sam curled his lip. "No, 'cos the house always wins, doesn't it, Crane?"

"D'you know," I cut in loudly, "I couldn't give a toss about you shooting Warren. One less scumbag makes the world a better place, as far as I'm concerned. But why'd you kill Joni Newton?"

"I didn't! He bleedin' well did!" He waggled the gun at Sam, who halted his sneaky sideways shuffling.

I shook my head, trying to regain Crane's attention.

"Nope. He was with me. Try again." I saw a look of genuine confusion pass across Crane's face, then his eyes narrowed craftily.

"I think you know - don't you?" I pushed him. "You know who it was, because it's the same man who was here the night of Warren's murder. Your _other_ partner."

I heard a slight intake of breath from Sam – could have been in recognition or may just have been his dodgy leg, but he managed to edge another few inches to the left. We were both still too far from Crane to risk jumping him, but a bit more outflanking and he'd only be able to shoot one of us, which was a comforting thought.

"Doesn't matter what you think, Hunt, because you won't be around to do anything about it." Crane was saying, with a tone of finality that didn't bode well.

"If you're going to kill me, you might as well tell me first." I pointed out, reasonably. "Go on. Satisfy my curiosity. Think of it as a final request."

Crane's grip tightened on the gun and I braced myself to move, seeing Sam from the corner of my eye taking a deep breath.

Crane grinned. "All right then."

The muzzle of his gun shifted – and before either of us could move, a shot rang out, sudden and deafening.

And Tony Crane keeled over, a look of shock frozen on his face.

I took an involuntary step forward, knowing Crane was dead even as his body hit the ground. Sam swore and twisted around as a figure stepped out of the darkness behind us, a still-smoking gun in his hand.

"You took your time." I told him.

"Sorry, Gene. Wanted to give you a chance to get more out of him."

Harry went to crouch over Crane, briefly checking for signs of life.

"Who...?" Sam tailed off, staring at Harry's bent back.

"Sam, meet Superintendent Woolf of Manchester CID."

"Thank Christ," said Sam feelingly, his shoulders slumping in relief. "You lot were quiet – I had no idea you were here." He glanced around, running a hand over his face and through his hair in an oddly familiar gesture.

"Nice shot, Harry. Crap timing, though: he was about to give us the name of his partner."

Harry grunted. "Looked more like he was about to shoot you, from where I was standing."

Sam took a few paces, peering into the shadows, as Harry busied himself rifling through Crane's pockets. He pulled out the envelope of photos.

"This what all the fuss is about?" he asked.

I nodded. "That's it. Photographic evidence of every deal Warren made over a period of around three months, courtesy of D.I. Tyler here."

"Well, Mr. Tyler, you've led us quite a merry dance." Harry straightened up as Sam turned around and they locked eyes for the first time. I saw Sam swallow, eyes widening in shock, and he fell back a step.

"Gene..."

Harry's gun came up, pointing unwaveringly at Tyler.

"What with a trail of murders in your wake, and conveniently losing your memory – which I suppose you've recovered?"

Sam, now seeming lost for words, gave a shaky nod.

"Shame, that." Harry stepped back and I realised that the gun was casually covering us both. "Not that I was going to let you live, anyway."

Something cold settled in the pit of my stomach.

"Harry?" I rasped. "What are you doing? Tyler's innocent!" A heartbeat later, I realised that the gun he was now holding was mine.

"Yes, but all that matters is that he _looks_ guilty. Once Tyler here is found to have murdered his business partners and then turned the gun on himself, no-one will be surprised. Case closed."

"What do you mean _partners_?" I snarled.

Harry managed a look of regret when he addressed me. "I don't suppose your death will come as a surprise to anyone, either, Gene – not with your history of corruption. Pity you had to get involved. I tried to have you warned off, but I might have known you'd be too bloody-minded to let the case drop."

"It was you: the other man in the shadows..." Sam croaked, looking pained and tired and utterly defeated.

"You were the third partner all along, weren't you Harry? The reason Warren was always one step ahead of Morgan; why you wanted me to bring the evidence directly to you; setting fire to the photography shop I always use; so keen to get Sam to hand himself in...I suppose he would have had a nasty accident in the cells, wouldn't he?"

Harry gave a rueful little smile. "Always were a good copper, when you put your mind to it, Gene. Still, I suppose it's a fitting end – being my scapegoat one last time."

I nodded grimly. "It was you, three years ago, wasn't it? The evidence pointing to me?"

"I'm afraid so. Questions were being asked and I needed to divert attention. Dirty business we're in, Gene. Victory by fair means or foul."

Sam was edging sideways again, but I didn't think Harry would make the rudimentary mistake of letting us outflank him. Desperately trying to keep Harry talking, I continued. "And you were the one who killed Joni, weren't you?"

Harry gave a small, almost elegant, shrug. "She'd outlived her usefulness as a snitch once Warren was dead, and she only managed to make Tyler here suspicious when I sent her round to find out what he'd remembered. Easier to use her to frame Tyler and help pin the whole mess on him. After all, what's one more dirty copper who finally snapped?" As Harry raised the gun there was a look in his eyes that I'll never forget: cold, hard, ruthless with greed; and I wondered why I'd never seen it before.

With a sickening sense of inevitability, I realised that this could end no other way.

Sam's face had gone white with fury and I knew - as clear as day, as clear as the summer skies - exactly what the stupid bugger was intending to do.

So I did it first.

As Harry's trigger finger started to squeeze I leapt for him, and then there was another bang, even louder than the first, and then I was falling. Falling, and hitting the ground.

Tyler's face loomed into my line of sight, looking stricken, and I could hear shouts and a siren somewhere and the sound of running feet, and then all the noise seemed to fade away; all but the dull thump of my own heartbeat.

Sam was mouthing something at me that might have been "you bloody idiot", and I wished I had the energy to yell back at the stupid bastard but I had to settle for groping past his clutching hand and under my blood-soaked shirt to feel for the wire and transmitter, still taped securely to my chest.

And my last thought, apart from being royally pissed off, was at least something had gone right.

 

***


	15. Chapter 15

I didn't die, as it turned out.

It just felt like it.

 

***

At first I thought I'd gone blind.

Then my eyes adjusted to the night-time dimness and I could make out the shape of a hospital room and the figure of a man sitting in the chair next to my bed. He had flopped forward, his head resting on the bed near my hand, and judging by the slow rise and fall of his body he was fast asleep. I would know that stupid short haircut anywhere: Tyler.

I wanted to reach out and touch him, just to make sure this was all real, but I couldn't feel anything much beyond a strange numbness, my arm heavy as though anchored to the bed, and it was all too much effort. So I just lay there and watched him sleep until my own eyelids drooped closed.

God, I was tired. Dying really takes it out of you.

 

***

 

Next time I awoke it was daytime, everything seemed too sharp and bright, and I was so hungry I could eat a scabby dog. Not to mention that my shoulder felt like I'd been kicked by a horse.

A bastard big horse. With a grudge.

Annie was there, looking a little bleary around the edges, but then I was no oil painting myself at the best of times and a bullet probably hadn't improved me much.

After the nurses and a doctor had fussed about and left, and we'd had the obligatory exchange about how I felt (like I'd been shot in the ruddy shoulder, funnily enough), she started to fill me in on what had happened.

They'd got the whole lot on tape, thanks to Ray and Chris: Crane's confession as well as Harry's; and the coppers had taken care of the Hungarian goons Crane had left posted outside the mill. Morgan and Ray had stormed in just as Harry shot me, taking him down before he had a chance to turn the gun on Sam. Harry himself was in custody, in an infirmary somewhere with a bullet in his guts. I didn't shed any tears over that.

Sam was fine, she told me. He'd recovered his memory, all right; enough to provide eyewitness evidence which would put away a fair few of Warren's business associates for a good long stretch, and so he'd been dragged into endless interviews and de-briefings at CID and back down at the taskforce in London.

Annie had just got to the good bit, about Jackie Queen's headline with "Hunt snares Woolf: Hero ex-copper busts vice ring" when I fell asleep again.

 

***

 

After that, it was just a case of getting a bit better day by day.

Doctors, nurses and visitors came and went, as did the pain in my shoulder. I decided that the water stain above my bed looked like France, the food was so bad I'd rather eat a _real_ scabby dog, and one of the nurses bore an uncanny resemblance to Les Dawson in drag (just my bloody luck that she was usually the one to give me a bed-bath, always lingering rather too long over my nether regions for my liking).

Still, things could have been worse. I had my own room, which was apparently because my wound had become infected, although I had a sneaky suspicion may have had something to do with the formidable Sister Dobbs. She occasionally popped in to trade insults, confiscate cigarettes and slip me seconds of whatever was for pudding that day (the pudding, at least, was quite tasty, especially the jam roly-poly).

All in all, it would have been quite bearable - had it not been for Tyler.

Not that he was there to annoy me in person; oh no. He was conspicuous in his bloody absence, depriving me of the joys of shouting at him, and somehow that just meant he was on my mind all the more. And when you're laid up in hospital with nothing much to occupy the long hours between meals, that can be a dangerous thing. Memories would suddenly pop into my waking thoughts: that stupid constipated look he got when he was thinking hard; the tilt of his head when he moved to kiss me; the rise and fall of his ribs as he stretched out, lithe as a cat, under my hands.

"...so it turns out this taskforce lot sent Tyler to investigate months ago, but they hadn't told the local forces because they suspected police corruption." Ray finished, lighting up a strictly forbidden fag.

I grunted, dragging my thoughts back to the conversation. "Well, they weren't wrong, were they."

"No," said Ray grimly, his expression growing sombre. "I couldn't believe it were the Super. When you told me your plan I was sure you were wrong – no offence, mate." He shot me an apologetic glance. "Still can't believe it – even though I heard it with my own ears."

He shook his head, taking another drag.

"And Morgan was shocked. I mean, we'd only convinced 'im to go along with the wire in the first place because he thought we were setting a trap for Tyler. You should have seen his face when we were in the van listening in to Crane and Woolf: 'e were furious. Harry must have been feeding Warren info on what we were doing all along - no wonder the Guv never got close to nabbing him."

I nodded absently, filching his ciggie and reflecting at how strange it was, even after all this time, to hear Ray calling someone else 'Guv'.

"Are you meant to 'ave them?" He asked doubtfully.

"No." I exhaled, a plume of smoke twisting sluggishly upwards.

Ray lit another one and puffed at it for a moment. "No telling what else the Super has been up to all these years," he continued. "Like a can of worms, it is, and now the lid is well and truly off. We're looking into his bank accounts and everything. Oh, and the Guv said to tell you that he's put in an appeal to get your pension reinstated. He thinks they'll have to, what with Harry having confessed to stitching you up."

Morgan had already been in to the hospital to see me. To take my statement personally, he said, as though it was some sort of honour, like meeting the Queen. But to give him his due, he'd apologised for misjudging me – he'd even managed not to sneer while saying it - and he'd left me a bottle of scotch and a bunch of grapes, so the man clearly wasn't all bad. Still didn't like him, though.

I took a deep drag of nicotine. "I owe you Ray; you and Chris and his fascination with all things poncy and new-fangled. When I'm out of here I suggest we celebrate with a few pints then a slap-up dinner at the _Viceroy_, my treat. What d'you say?"

His face brightened. "Sounds great, ta. Um, will you ask Annie? Only Chris is still harping on about not having met her..."

I only half-heard his reply as the image of Sam, eyes crinkling in humour as he helped himself to my lamb jalfrezi, seemed to dance in front of my eyes.

 

***

 

I got a copy of 'Just Jugs' and a sneaky packet of fags from Ray, 'Practical Photography' magazine and a stick of Blackpool rock from Trevor, and a severe telling-off from Annie when she found illicit fag-ends stashed in my slippers.

"Next time I'll shop you to Sister," she warned, wrapping the ends and stuffing them into her handbag, "Or worse yet – I'll tell Sam."

"I'm quaking in my pyjamas," I muttered. I still hadn't seen him since I'd come round, although more than once I had woken with the scent of him all around me, as though he'd just got up and left the room. Funny, the tricks the brain can play.

Ignoring my grumbling, Annie was giving me a bright smile although it came out a little worn at the edges. "Trevor's insurance has come through," she said, trying to sound perky. "He's got big plans for having the place re-done; you know, more like a proper studio."

I nodded, still feeling bad about the fire.

"Mr. Palmer has paid his bill; so has Mrs. Henderson. And we've had loads of enquiries, what with all the publicity, the phone's been ringing off the hook."

She'd dealt with everything while I'd been stuck in bed for the last two weeks like a useless lump of lard, and I was feeling bad about that, too.

"Well, don't worry love," I said, giving her a wink. "I'm feeling fine and dandy. I'll be out of here soon enough and then we'll sort everything out. Get the business going again."

Annie gave me an odd look but didn't say anything, and I suddenly realised I was making a big assumption. I gazed up at the watery map of France and chose my next words with care.

"You know, if you wanted to do something else, I would understand. I mean, I am grateful for everything, and you do a grand job, Annie, but I can manage on my own. You know. If you wanted to...move on."

There was a silence, then I heard Annie give a laugh.

"You must be joking. Where else am I going to find this much drama and excitement on a daily basis?"

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment before looking over at her.

"Besides," she said, her mouth curving into a wry smile, "I've seen your idea of record keeping and it's far more scary than a man with a gun."

She still looked worn, but her eyes were alive with humour and warmth and I realised that the strange feeling in my gut was relief.

Except for one nagging thought.

I took a deep breath.

"Suppose Tyler's gone back down south, has he, to that taskforce of his?" I enquired as casually as I could manage, ignoring the way my heart seemed to be beating more loudly.

"Yes, they've been questioning him about what happened. But he's due back here later today. I expect he'll pop in to see you."

I grunted. "Tell 'im not to do me any favours. I can do without the grand farewell gesture, ta very much."

"Gene!"

Leaning back, I concentrated on the Normandy coastline, forcing myself to voice the inevitable. "He's got a life to get back to in London, Annie, and he might as well sod off and get on with it instead of lingering around here like a bad smell."

"But he's not going back." She said, sounding confused.

"He'll have to go back to work at some point," I pointed out.

"No, he's jacked it in."

Abandoning northern France, I stared at Annie and she stared back, her eyes searching my face.

"He hasn't told you, has he?"

My face must have answered because she swallowed and continued. "He said he'd had enough. Chucked in his job, packed up his stuff, and everything. He's moving back up here."

All sorts of things were going through my mind, but I only managed one syllable. "Why?"

Annie rolled her eyes. "Must be the lovely climate." She gave her head a small exasperated shake. "Look, you'll have to ask him yourself."

I snorted, folding my arms. "Well, I would, if he ever bothered to show his face."

"He was here every day when you were really ill! And if he's not been round much this week it's because in between finishing his job and moving up here, he's been handling _your_ outstanding cases!"

We stared at each other, Annie biting her lip.

"You didn't know, did you?"

I pushed aside the thought of Sam at my bedside - the half-remembered glimpses of him, the feel of his hand on my brow - and finally found my voice, focussing on the single concrete thing in amongst her words.

"Do you mean to tell me," I began relatively calmly, "that while I've been stuck in here at the mercy of the ugliest nurse in Manchester, that nutter Tyler's been running _my_ business?!" I hadn't meant to roar at the end there but I made Annie jump a little in her seat. She cleared her throat, her eyes sliding away from mine, then she picked up her handbag and got to her feet.

"Well, I think that's me off then," she said with forced cheer, heading towards the door.

"Annie, hang on..."

She stopped, on hand on the door, and sighed. "Look, you need to have this conversation with him." Then her eyes narrowed. "And mind you're on your best behaviour, Gene Hunt, or I'll have a word with Sister Dobbs about keeping you in here a bit longer."

I goggled at her. "Are you threatening me?"

She smiled, tired but now affectionate. "Just be good. And have a shave, eh?" And then she was gone.

 

***

 

It was after supper when Tyler finally turned up, and I was sitting up in bed with a cup of tea and the Manchester Gazette ("Big Smell Over Big Cheese: Councillor Martin arrested as Warren case deepens") and a particularly smooth chin.

A half-bottle of scotch appeared over the top of the paper so I lowered it with a sigh and took the bottle from him, placing it on the bedside table – this was one conversation I wanted to be sober for. Besides, I was feeling light-headed enough as it was.

"You look good; fighting fit." He began brightly. "And I hear the doctor says you can go home in a few days."

He looked good, too. The bruises had gone, as had the haunted look he'd previously worn. He seemed younger, almost carefree, and I was suddenly aware of how I must look in comparison: washed-up and worn-out. I'd been a bloody idiot.

I folded my arms, stoically not wincing at the flare of pain, and fixed him with a gimlet stare.

"Isn't there something you want to tell me?"

Tyler's face crumpled a bit and he ran a hand nervously through his hair before perching himself on the edge of my bed.

"Look, first I want to say thanks: for trusting me, and for...well, saving my life, basically."

I grunted.

"And I'm sorry about not visiting you more. Things all just happened pretty quickly once I'd made the decision to leave-"

"So." I cut across his apology. "You've thrown in your badge and you're moving back up to Manchester. Want to tell me why?"

"Because...it feels right." He looked down at his hands where they twisted in his lap. "Because in that mill, when you turned up, not knowing what you were walking into, and we faced Crane down together...I felt alive again, Gene. In a way I haven't for so long."

"Bloody hell, Gladys, maybe you _do_ need some of that psycho-whatsit..."

"Look, do you remember when you asked me if I'd had sex with Warren? Well, I didn't. But I can remember thinking that I was prepared to, if it helped the investigation." He took a deep breath. "I don't want to be that man, Gene. Feeling numb; going through the motions like a walking corpse. I want to _live_ my life. _Really_ live it. Here. Now."

Silence fell for a few moments, and I wondered just how sane he really was.

"And this isn't all because you've been run over by a car and hit your head again?"

He huffed, sounding frustrated. "No. I know what I'm doing."

"Really. And you're hoping to get a job doing what, exactly?"

He brightened, but had the decency to look a little sheepish.

"Well, I _have_ finished off a couple of cases for you and the clients seemed very satisfied; and there's lots more work coming in since all the publicity – Jackie Queen seems to think you're the best thing since sliced bread-" he paused, gesturing at the newspaper before taking a deep breath and ploughing on. "And we make a good team, you and me, so...I thought...maybe I could work with you."

"_For_ me."

"Yes, yes, _for_ you," he corrected, but I spotted his quickly smothered smile. I paused for a few moments before I spoke, squashing down the ridiculous flare of hope in my chest and mustering my calmest, most reasonable tone.

"Tyler, what on God's green earth makes you think I'd want you around?" He blinked at that, and I continued with an incredulous laugh. "You're a walking disaster magnet. Since I met you a scant four weeks ago – which, by the way, feels like a bloody lifetime – my office has been ransacked, I've been interrogated by the fuzz, threatened, beaten up and shot in the shoulder. What are you going to do for an encore, fire-bomb my car?"

He winced a little, but I could see that blasted grin loitering round the corners of his mouth and not for the first time – nor the last, I'll warrant – I was seized with the urge to punch him.

"Well," he said finally with an idle shrug, "nobody's perfect."

I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, come on," Sam said, not bothering to hide his smile, "you have to admit, you could do with the help. Someone to watch your back. And I'm well qualified for the job-"

"Oh, yes – what with you being an amnesiac lunatic; very useful, that is."

"-not to mention me owing you for saving my life-"

"Which I'm starting to regret already."

"-besides, you love having someone to argue with."

"I do _not_!"

He just raised an eyebrow.

I glared at him. "All right, then, Mr. Clever-Clogs. But you're on a month's trial. And don't forget _I'm_ in charge!"

He was nodding, his grin growing wider, and something in my gut turned over. Maybe I shouldn't have had second helpings of the blancmange.

After a moment, Tyler cleared his throat then began again, his tone more tentative.

"Look, you know that night..."

I gave a heavy sigh. As though it wasn't at the forefront of my every ruddy waking thought - clearly it was too much to hope for that we could have never mentioned it again. All right, then. If I couldn't avoid it, I'd face it head-on.

"What, the one when we shagged and you did a runner?"

He blinked, clearly taken aback. "I _was_ being chased by the police at the time," he said with a note of reproach. "But yes, that night. Well...I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry if I came on a bit strong, but I don't regret it. Not at all."

I wanted to scoff; dismiss it all as a physical outlet at a stressful time and leave it at that. But I couldn't.

"The thing is..." Sam continued, falteringly, "...that I _would_ regret it if it never happened again."

I stared at him, transfixed by the flush spreading up his neck and into his cheeks, as his words sank in.

"Are you propositioning your boss, Tyler?"

He gave an embarrassed laugh. "I suppose I am." His expression sobered and he continued, picking his words slowly and deliberately as though tip-toeing his way through a minefield. "I know we haven't known each other long, and I had amnesia for most of it, but there's something between us and I'd like to see where it leads."

His eyes, full of intent and hope and other things I didn't want to examine too closely, met mine. Jesus. He was serious. I looked away, shaking my head.

"Just don't see how it can work between two blokes, Sam."

Feeling suddenly old and tired and wrung out like a worn dishcloth, I lay back against the pillows, my shoulder starting to throb.

He was silent for a while, staring out of the window into the darkening gloom, and I wondered if that would be the end of it - maybe the end of his short employment, too – and couldn't decide if I was horribly relieved or inconsolably gutted. But then I saw him give a slight shrug.

"I think," he said, his smile small and a bit sad, "it would work the same way any relationship does: one day at a time."

I let my eyes fall closed, exhaustion washing over me. The light-headed sensation was growing stronger and I felt adrift, floating free, and for a moment I could see the blueness of a summer sky, deep and clear and dizzying in its immensity.

Sam was bloody annoying, probably mad as a stoat, and would quite possibly be the death of me. But I knew, despite my better judgement and a gut instinct that told me to run for the hills, there would be no walking away; not this time.

I lifted my hand, wondering absently if insanity was contagious. His fingers, when I slid my hand over them, felt warm and dry; his grasp, strong and sure, closed about mine, anchoring me in place.

One day at a time.

Heaven help me.

 

***

THE END.

***


End file.
